Peccata Mundi Assignment 1: The Nightingale
by D-of-the-Mask
Summary: The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong. See inside for assignment summary.
1. Affliction

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Greetings! I want to thank you for choosing to check out this fanfic. I actually had the idea for a Detective Erik series for a while, but was just waiting for the time and the motivation to execute it. So this is going to be the first out of…I don't know how many. I'll have to see how popular it becomes and how much it progresses. I received inspiration from the series Godchild, Big O, and the movies Vampire Hunter D and Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust. I did come up with Madame Giry's first name. It's just slightly random. And if anyone's interested, the title roughly means "Sins of the World." Anyway, I won't delay the inevitable any longer. Let me just say that I am up for suggestions and ideas for plots and mysteries. So please read and review and overall enjoy! Thanks again!

**Section 1**

- Affliction

_Burning! It burned so bad!_

_His skin crawled with the excruciating pain. It was like nothing he had ever felt before or ever wanted to feel again. He gritted his teeth against the fire searing the right side of his face, but it was so hard. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry out in agony to whatever God was left. Every muscle in his body ached with his stubbornness. His fingernails scratched blindly at the floor, rubbing raw and creating small pools of blood._

_The pain! It was too much! All he felt was the pain!_

_There was nothing except the pain. He didn't know where his mother was. He didn't know where their attackers had gotten to. Truthfully, he didn't care. The pain was just so suffocating. All he wanted to do was make it stop. That was all he could think to do: end the pain. Tears stained the creases of his shut eyes. They were welded closed in anguish. Ever opening them again seemed impossible. _

_Tired…He was so tired…His very being, his very soul…_

_He felt himself on the edge of oblivion. Lost in the darkness, he was hurtling headlong toward a safer world. He kept telling himself he couldn't let go. He had to finish it. He had to protect her. But simply being awake was killing him. He had never felt so much pain and suffering in his entire life. Electricity coursed throughout his body and touched on every nerve. His breath came quickly and raggedly._

_That smell! What was that smell? It would never go away. That smell would never leave him: the smell of burning flesh._

_He was slipping. There was no way for him to hang on any longer. He had tried to remain strong. He had tried to remain in control, but failed. Did this mean they won? In some sick sense, had they actually won? He had fought against all odds. Didn't that count for anything? There was nothing left for him. There was nothing, no one on his side. What else could he do? It was time. It was time to let go._

_A scream escaped from his throat. It was deafening, expressive, jolting. It was the scream of agony; the scream of the weak._

He awoke to his own scream and ceased it immediately. His breathing was hard and fast. He couldn't seem to slow his heart down. He shot up, the blankets falling from his bare chest and into his lap. A cold sweat covered his body. He tried to relax his tense nerves and muscles, but suddenly fell into an involuntary fit of convulsions.

His shaggy black hair was matted to his face with perspiration. He brought his hand up to his face and gently grazed the scars that covered the right side of it. They were sore, and flared with even the slightest pressure. He immediately withdrew his hand to the mattress at his side. His shoulders continued to shake as tremors erupted repeatedly throughout his entire body.

Slowly, he wrapped his arms around his thin frame and hugged his knees close. He let his head fall forward and rest against his drawn kneecaps. He closed his eyes gently, wishing, praying for the spell to subside. There was no more sleep for him that evening. With the pale moonlight filtering into his room and falling harmlessly across his naked torso, all he could do was wait in the huddled position for the sun to arise and a new day to begin.

-----

Her eyes revealed the information she knew. Erik could tell by their worried expression that she had heard him screaming in the middle of the night. However, she was smart enough not to mention anything regarding it. Instead, an awkward silence filled the dining room and connected kitchen area. He almost preferred a confrontation rather than the dreadful void that had fallen between them.

Madame Madeleine Giry had been his housekeeper for nearly ten years, and they got along swell right from the get go. She abided by his strange dress code to wear only dark, conservative clothing. The neck and the wrists were not to be shown at any time. She asked little to no questions, no matter how odd the task; and, she completed each chore with precision and seriousness. She knew the right time to offer her own opinion or comment and when not to, the present being the latter.

She dropped her gaze as she set a china teacup and saucer on the long wooden table in front of Erik and swiftly pivoted to return to the kitchen. Erik didn't take his gaze off of her until she was beyond his sight, out of the dining room. He looked down into the dark, steaming liquid of his morning tea. Suddenly, ripples broke out along the surface, accompanied by a loud boom. A rushed, yet light scampering of footsteps became steadily louder as they approached the dining room.

There were only three other people he permitted to live in the mansion with him, and it was obvious which one was headed straight for him. Apart from Madame Giry, he also had a man on his staff: Joseph Buquet. Joseph acted as his carriage driver. Even though it seemed like a simple and rare task, Erik actually called upon his services regularly. The last resident was actually a very close relative of his housekeeper's. It was her very own daughter, Meg Giry. Meg had arrived about three years earlier after having finished her time in a private ballet school. Possessing huge talent and potential, the girl attended weekly lessons at a nearby Opera House, paid for and sponsored by Erik. When not in class, she assisted her mother with the various chores around the mansion. It was this other female that persisted with the ruckus.

Erik turned his head toward the doorway, waiting for Meg to appear. He was sure by the sound of her pace that her scrawny legs would be revolving quick enough to carry her jogging into the room. However, when she reached the open frame, her innocent blue eyes caught sight of him and immediately she halted. She remained peering at him for a few seconds before, like a child caught by her parents, slowly and properly walking to the second chair down one of the sides of the table.

Madame Giry, obviously informed by the running, shuffled into the dining room with a plate made up with breakfast. She set it down in front of her daughter then returned to the kitchen. Meg took no notice of her mother's presence and the food that now beckoned to her. She hadn't taken her eyes from Erik the entire time, who took a quick sip of his tea to look anywhere but back at her. After returning the cup to its saucer, he lifted up the newspaper that had been resting closed on his lap and noisily shook it open. He began to peruse the different articles, slightly amused and not really paying attention to this task.

Meg let her gaze remain on the printed barrier for a moment longer then looked down at the pile of scrambled eggs and couple pieces of bacon. She gently found and lifted her fork, and paused. She glanced up at the cover of the newspaper for just a second then stared at her food again. Sighing audibly, she stabbed a small piece of egg and brought it to her mouth. She allowed it to linger there for a moment, listening to the rustle of a turning page. She opened her mouth to take in the nourishment, but ended up closing it right away. After pausing for a second or two, she did the same motion—opened her mouth and closed it again. Fed up, she let the fork drop to the plate with a loud clang.

The clatter caused Erik to close his reading material and take notice of Meg, who was already staring at him. The curiosity and concern were evident in the creases across her forehead. It was wrong for anything to taint her pure skin like that, especially since he knew it was for him. He had to tell himself that she was young and at a fragile age of sixteen. Being ten years her senior, he had already had his fair taste of the world. He wasn't looking to worry her. The last thing he expected for anyone like him was worry.

"You'll have to excuse my outburst, monsieur, but I cannot remain silent any longer." Her voice was feminine, quiet, just what one would expect from her appearance. "I have to know what troubles you in the night!"

"Meg!" Madame Giry chided, falling forward against the table, which was the only thing standing between her and her daughter. She had bustled into the room at the sound made by the metal fork falling against the porcelain plate.

Meg brushed her off and continued with as much passion. "Though I have not kept up residence with you as long as my mother, I still value the three years I have spent here. Even if you are barely around, I still feel for you like an older brother." She rushed to his feet, kneeling in front of him. "Please confide in me! I will not be at ease until I know you are well!"

Erik looked down into Meg's youthful sapphire eyes, finding genuine sincerity and sadness. He turned his head away to finish folding the newspaper and set it down on the tabletop. Next, he took her hands in his and lifted Meg to her feet, while standing up himself. Her eyes widened in surprise, not having expected such a reaction.

"Meg," Erik started slowly, "you must trust my word that I am well. I ask nothing of you, except diligence and growth in your dancing." He paused, smirking slightly. "Which, by the way, you seem to be late for." He saw panic flare in her eyes. "So, please, do not let another thought of last night enter your mind. Focus, practice, and live up to all of our expectations." He released her limbs. "Now, hurry up or you'll get scolded."

He watched Meg hesitate, nod, then run out of the room. She was young with so much to still learn. He couldn't help feeling livelier with her in the mansion, though. She definitely brightened up the otherwise dreary atmosphere. Erik turned toward Madame Giry, who had corrected her posture and composure. The smile had disappeared from his face. It was time to get down to business.

"Madame Giry," he addressed.

"Monsieur?"

"Please gather my top hat and coat, and call my carriage. I'm late for an appointment."

"Yes, sir."

Madame Giry bowed her head and glided out of the dining room. Alone at last, Erik resumed his seat and basked in the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock from the hallway and the otherwise silence. He sighed, already slightly exhausted. He reached for his cup and held it up to his mouth. Staring straight ahead, he seemed lost in thought, taking in a few breaths before tipping the cup to his lips. Instantly, he withdrew it, puckering his lips in distaste.

"Ooh, cold."

-----

Erik felt uncomfortable in the small sitting room. The two men burned holes into him with their ceaseless staring. He couldn't help being reminded of an interrogation. They were the questioners and he was the enemy. He was used to the critical glances, though, because of his appearance. It wasn't his expensive black suit or recently shined shoes. It wasn't his tidy greased down hair or his delicate, yet experienced clean fingers. The only unsettling aspect Erik possessed besides his quiet, inquisitive demeanor that was evident to the public was the white porcelain mask that covered the right side of his face.

Upon entering, Erik couldn't help but notice how shabby the state of the small flat. The furniture was worn and tattered. The air was musty and smelled of the sick. Even the upkeep had failed to impress. Books and papers littered the surfaces of little side tables he had seen in his trek from the front door to the next room. Like a good guest, though, he didn't comment or show his repugnance. Erik's gaze stopped wandering around the room and finally landed on the odd couple in front of him.

The old man in the wheelchair seemed to be the source of his being present. Past the wrinkles and slightly yellowed skin, there were definite strong, handsome features. His green eyes radiated a powerful, commanding presence. The other man, standing behind him, was much younger. He even appeared to be a few years Erik's junior. He had a healthy body of dirty blonde hair and blue eyes that were much too serious for someone his age. The suit he wore was tailored nicely, but was obviously a creation of lesser value. Overall, he seemed controlled and well put together.

"Monsieur Daaé?" Erik inquired of both gentlemen.

"Yes," the old man spoke up. "I'm the one who requested your presence."

Erik focused in on him. He nodded, as if signaling for a continuance.

"I'd like to hire you and your services, monsieur…" He trailed off, expecting Erik to fill him in on what to address him by.

"Erik, just call me Erik," he informed swiftly. His "business" wasn't necessarily on the record, so it was normal for clients to not even know his name. In fact, the public wouldn't even know how to contact him without prior knowledge from previous customers.

"Monsieur Erik, something of great importance to me has gone missing. I want you…" Monsieur Daaé paused, looking down, and clucked nostalgically to himself. "No, I need you to recover it." He looked back up, and Erik distinctly saw tears forming in the old man's green eyes. "I am old and I am sick," he continued dejectedly. "I cannot hope to rest peacefully until I know it's healthy and safe."

Erik readjusted his position on the couch. "Well, monsieur, I take any job as long as it meets my…requirements." It was obviously uncomfortable for him to speak of payment under such poor conditions. He didn't want to come off as a pompous ass, but he had to support three other people than himself. He had to live, somehow, too.

"Money is no object, believe me," Monsieur Daaé reassured. "This is too…too precious to me. I'd trade anything to retrieve it."

"I'll take the job, monsieur," Erik announced. "Don't worry about the payment. I won't charge you dreadfully." There was no change in his employer's disposition. Obviously, he was telling the truth. Money didn't matter. Erik cleared his throat. "So, tell me, what is it that has been taken from you?"

"My daughter: Christine Daaé."


	2. Lilium

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** I wanted to create a little tension between Raoul and Erik, so I hope the beginning of this chapter doesn't seem too out of character for Erik. He just has this uncaring, criticizing side to his personality, especially when it comes to assumptions and things that could possibly go against the will/want of someone else. I hope that made sense.

**Section 2**

- Lilium

Lily. The entire room smelled of lilies. The scent swarmed his nostrils and filled his mind. It was difficult to think with the invading odor, which reminded him of a strange funeral from his past. Erik had to pause within the doorway to recollect himself before continuing on with the investigation. Everything about the room screamed feminine and innocence. The walls, originally a vibrant white, were dirtied with improper upkeep. There was a single bed with a soft pink comforter across from a small vanity. A rather aged wardrobe was against the wall occupying a little window. The white lace curtains were drawn, but did little to block out the bright sunlight.

"This is where it happened?" Erik questioned.

"Yes," Monsieur Daaé confirmed, being wheeled into the room by his younger counterpart, then continued to explain, "Christine always prepares breakfast in the morning and brings it into my room along with my medicine. When she didn't wake me, I went to her room to check on her, thinking she was sick. But her room was empty, and the window was wide open."

Erik stepped carefully toward the window, pushing the drapes aside, and peered out. The pavement outside was about ten feet down. There were also a few crates to the side. Not far at all if someone was to jump. Right above the window was a drain attached to the roof. He could visualize someone crawling out onto the ledge, using the drain to balance, and carefully lowering herself into a hanging position from the ledge. It would then be simple enough to drop onto the crates and step down onto the pavement.

Erik turned back into the room and glanced around at the minute decorations and shabby furnishings. Everything was neat and orderly and fit together too well. It was obvious that the crime hadn't been committed, or even attempted, within these four walls. In fact, just in perusing from a single location, it occurred to him that maybe the case had started out in consent from both parties. It was possible that there had been some understanding between the victim and the kidnapper, but then came betrayal and all hell broke loose.

One specific article caught his eye. It was the only thing that seemed out of the ordinary in the small bedroom—a red scarf hanging from the mirror on the vanity stand. He went to it and gently tugged at it. The wool would have felt soft and warm, he was sure, if he hadn't been wearing black leather gloves. He wasn't accustomed to going around outside without them, though. The crimson color distracted him for the longest time. His vision became awash in the captivating shade, loosing him to another era.

Believing that he was looking for an explanation, the younger gentleman interrupted with the history of the item. "Christine has had that scarf since she was young. We actually met over it, too." Being drawn into the past, he began to go into further detail. "I was staying with an aunt by the sea. Walking along the shore, I spotted Christine crying. Being a curious boy, I asked her why she was upset. She replied that her favorite scarf had been swept up in a gust of wind and taken out to sea. So I took it upon myself to retrieve it." His hand went randomly to his cheek. "I got a kiss in return." His hand dropped to his side and he returned to the present, a gleam still in his eye. "I guess you could say it was fate and that scarf is a sort of engagement present."

Erik had been watching him incredulity. He couldn't believe what misconceptions this man had of other people. He automatically assumed his feelings were returned with just as much passion and enthusiasm. Ignorance toward other people's feelings and plans was one of Erik's biggest bothers. He had to look away, losing his vision in the red hue of the scarf again. His lips pursed in contempt and disappointment.

"That's an enchanting story and all," Erik replied in disinterest, "but was she informed of the engagement?"

The look in the other man's eyes darkened, and his muscles tensed. "Excuse me?" he growled, stepping threateningly forward, his hands balled into fists at his side.

The old man held out a hand to stop him from taking action, "Raoul, that is unnecessary," and he listened obediently. Monsieur Daaé got comfortable, gazing at Erik. "I know that Raoul's story seems somewhat farfetched, but the truth is that it's always been assumed the two would marry. Raoul has been a friend of the family for a long time. He and Christine were completely inseparable. Although no formal plans were laid out, there was a common knowledge that their futures may intertwine."

Erik's stomach churned, and his feelings grew worse. It was still inconceivable that people would think and act in such a way. He shook his head slightly and dropped his fingers from the scarf. He cleared his throat, trying to clear the awkwardness in the room at the same time. He turned toward his two employers, and changed the subject.

"Well, Monsieur Daaé, I've already been able to deduce part of this mystery," he informed. An eager look told him to continue. "It seems that this is not the scene of the kidnapping. As you can tell by looking around, there is nothing askew in this room. You found the window open, I believe, because that is the means in which your daughter exited the flat."

"Are you insinuating that she ran away?" Monsieur Daaé shot rather heatedly.

"No, not at all. I'm just saying that she was definitely not abducted here. She could have crept out to meet the perpetrator somewhere else." He looked to Raoul. "Perhaps it was someone close to the family." He noticed a look of surprise leap on both of the gentlemen's expressions. Slowly he pivoted on one foot so that his back was toward them. "Or perhaps it wasn't." He began to steadily pace. "I also noticed upon entering your house that there was no female outerwear hanging on the coat rack next to the door." He heard a slight gasp. "This and the slight crack in the crate beneath the window only exist to prove my theory." He halted facing them. "Now all we have to find is the where, why, and who."

An incredulous silence overcame the room, but was soon interrupted by a gentle rapping at the door. Monsieur Daaé was the first to awaken from the trance. He turned as far around as he could in order to spy the front door out of the corner of his eye.

"Raoul," he gasped.

Without having any more direction, Raoul knew exactly what he wanted him to do. The young man took his place behind the wheel chair and grasped the handles.

"If you'll excuse us," Monsieur Daaé apologized, "I really must attend to this."

Erik gave a slight bow to show his understanding of the situation, and watched them move toward the front of the flat. He turned his gaze to the surface of the vanity table, beginning to check out the odds and ends that littered it. A piece of sheet music caught his interest. He picked up the thin piece of paper and studied it over.

"She must be a singer," he muttered to himself, longing, somewhat, to hear a sample of her voice. He replaced it and pivoted away.

The voices in the hall had grown loud enough to echo to his location. Being rather intrigued on who could possibly be visiting such a place, Erik moved to the bedroom door and halted right behind it to hear, but not to be seen. The new voice he didn't recognize. It was masculine, deep, scratchy. There was a slight nervous stutter lying beneath it. It was shaky, odd.

"…b-but she never came to pick it up. I t-thought it only proper to deliver your violin myself."

"Thank you, Monsieur Richeleau. My daughter is a bit…indisposed at the moment," the old man replied carefully.

"I-I understand."

Monsieur Daaé took a sudden and deep intake of breath. "This isn't my violin!"

"Chri…Y-You're daughter wanted to surprise you with some touch ups, Monsieur."

There was a long pause, in which Erik decided the master of the house must have been looking over the wooden instrument and the professional detail put into it. Glancing back over at the sheet music, he concluded that they must be a father-daughter team. Christine sang, while he played.

"Thank you," Monsieur Daaé breathed.

There was a mumble then the door squeaked open and clicked shut. Erik was positive he could hear soft whimpering from the front of the house. It was like a new wave of emotions had overcome the old man. He had just been reminded of how much his daughter cared for him and thought of him. It made the loss all the more painful.

For the first time since hearing about the case, Erik felt a strong urge to find the missing girl as soon as possible. He felt a true connection to the job, and wouldn't be satisfied until he retrieved her…alive. He took a deep breath.

Lilies. The unusual aroma of lilies. The scent seemed foreboding. It was, after all, the flower of the dead. It adorned the bed of the deceased. Erik hoped that the fate of the girl wouldn't be like that of the flower. He'd protect her. He'd protect her for the sake of the old man. He'd protect her with all he had in him.

-----

It was at least ten minutes before Monsieur Daaé could return to his guest. He had broken out into tears the moment the front door had shut. He couldn't believe what his daughter had done for him. She believed so much that his skill would remain intact even while the rest of him slowly perished that she had ordered a re-mastering of his old instrument. He couldn't even grasp the amount of hope she still possessed. It had been overwhelming.

However, he had wiped his eyes dry to finish the meeting with the mysterious detective. If Christine still had hope, he had to mirror that. He couldn't give up on her and start mourning. He had to be strong and he had to get her back.

Raoul wheeled him slowly to Christine's bedroom. He pushed on the ajar door, which swung carefully open.

"Sorry to keep you wai…" Monsieur Daaé began, but trailed off.

Glancing around the room, the two occupants were speechless with wonder. It was empty. The room was empty. But they hadn't seen Erik pass by them on his way out. How then could he have exited? The single window still stood ajar. The delicate curtains billowed inward by a calm breeze. Was this his method of escape, just like Christine? Wherever the stranger had gone to, Monsieur Daaé prayed that he would be successful in his task. He prayed that his daughter would be returned safe and sound.

Raoul didn't possess as much contemplation as his elder. Looking around, he furrowed his brow in confusion. Even with the questioning expression and surprise in his voice, he couldn't deny the part of him that felt relief and joy at the sudden departure.

"He's gone."


	3. In the Violin Maker's Shop

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** I apologize if this chapter seems too obvious. There's still a little bit of a twist, I guess you could call it, coming at the end. Stay tuned! And thanks for the reviews so far! I'm nothing without you all. Oh, and about the end of this chapter, I just wanted to add a little tender mother-daughter moment. Not to mention that there could be some foreshadowing there for future installments…

**Section 3**

- In the Violin Maker's Shop

The little bell placed above the door jangled with an incoming customer. Monsieur Richeleau hurriedly finished his task in the back room to greet the client. He secured the small lock box and tucked it away in the bottom drawer of his workbench. Then he pushed aside the heavy curtain separating the front of the store from the actual work station. At first glance, there was no sign of who had just entered. He peered to either side of the screen of hanging bows, not daring to venture out from behind the counter until he was sure someone was there. Finally, he spied the tip of a black top hat. His eyes lit up and a grin spread across his face as he approached.

"Ah, Monsieur, I see you have taken a liking to one of my oldest pieces," he greeted.

The client, who had been closely examining a violin at floor level, slowly erected his posture. He looked to the owner, triggering a small jolt of shock. Monsieur Richeleau sucked in a deep breath. The customer was like none he had ever encountered before. A strange, enchanting mask adorned half of his face. Like a good businessman, Monsieur Richeleau recovered swiftly, pretending he had not just been taken aback.

"I am Monsieur Richeleau, owner of this humble shop. Is there any way I can be of assistance?"

"I was just admiring some of the instruments. Are you responsible for any of these beautiful creations?"

"The ones around the store are not of my own making, but," with a proud grin on his face, he ushered the gentleman toward the counter, "these behind the glass are original works."

Erik leaned down to take a better look. Monsieur Richeleau was beaming behind him. It was obvious that his character was a confidant one when it came to his artistic ability, and he always searched for appraisal.

"Not bad," was the critique. "Not bad at all. Nice attention to detail."

"Thank you, sir," Monsieur Richeleau said. "I am also skilled in reconstructing old and worn string instruments. My shop is in fact the only within in miles that deals solely with string instruments. I guess you could say that I am a music enthusiast."

"Yes, you seem very dedicated to your craft," Erik replied softly, straightening up.

"It's more than a dedication. I'd compare it more to an…obsession." Suddenly his eyes glazed over and he seemed to mentally leave the room for a moment. His hands, folded in front of him, compulsively and subconsciously rubbed together. "It is utterly unbearable when a damaged instrument falls into my hands. I've made it my mission to preserve the splendor of the piece and its magnificent sound for all time." His voice drifted to a whisper. "I swear, as long as I can prevent it, nothing will fade…She-" He stopped, lurching into reality. He looked around to become aware of his surroundings. Spotting his customer, a spark in his brain seemed to go off and the normal switch was hit. He suddenly acted like he had not just been absent from the scene. "M-My apologies. I was rambling, and I'm sure you would rather just get down to business."

"Oh, there's no need to apology, Monsieur. But if you don't mind, I would like to get on with the business aspect of this visit."

"Of course, of course." He straightened out his uniform. "Now, was there a certain piece you are interested in? Or perhaps you needed something renovated?"

"Actually," the customer started, "I am looking for a rather…unique instrument, you could say."

"Well you've come to the right place, Monsieur." He spread his arms out, offering up the store. "You'll find a very nice selection."

Erik began to pace slowly around, looking here and there, but always without interest. "Yes, I already perused a bit, but I couldn't seem to find exactly what I'm looking for."

"Perhaps if you describe what you are looking for, I may be able to assist."

"Hmm, let's see." He stopped, his hands folded behind his back, and looked toward the ceiling in mock thought. "It's slender, of average height. The music it produces is magical, I hear." He gave a side glance toward the owner.

"Ah, I see. Continue."

He turned back away and looked upward again. "She also has long, curly brown hair, emerald eyes, and porcelain skin. Oh, and she is sweet and caring. Ring any bells?"

Again Erik looked over to the owner, who was now pale white with bulging, horror-stricken eyes. He could see Monsieur Richeleau start to tremble and develop nervous tendencies. Erik took a couple steps forward, a serious expression laid out on his face.

"A young woman went missing between the hours of last night and early this morning. Her name is Christine Daaé. I believe she visited your shop recently with her father's violin. You wouldn't happen to have any information on her, would you?"

Erik eyed him suspiciously as he tried, poorly, to recollect himself. "N-None at all. W-Why would you t-think that I'd have any more i-information on her? I-I'm just shocked that such a c-charming creature would be targeted." He swallowed hard, catching his breath. "I remember her well. Yes, it isn't h-hard to forget such a lady. V-very beautiful, v-very charming."

"So there was nothing suspicious about her, Monsieur?" Erik egged.

"N-Not at all. She came in, d-dropped off the violin with a r-request to refurbish it, a-and left." He spun away, placing his hands on the counter to steady himself. "I-I can't believe she's missing."

"Yes, it is a great tragedy." Erik's voice suddenly changed to a light, friendly air. It seemed to slice part of the tension in the room. "Well, if you'll excuse me. I don't mean to be rude, but I've a few other appointments to attend. Thank you for your help, Monsieur Richeleau." With a tip of his hat, he then exited the store.

The owner was left in such a state of dishevelment that he couldn't move or think for a couple minutes. Finally, gaining control of his limbs, he pounded the counter in frustration and rushed to the door, where he threw the lock and turned the sign to 'closed.' Then he whisked off quickly into the back.

Just outside the window, but out of view of the man inside, Erik had secretly paid witness to the man's actions. He bowed his head, suspicions arising, and set off down the street at a brisk pace.

-----

Madame Giry finished drying off the last dinner plate, silence consuming the room. The dishwashing had taken longer that evening because of her mental absence and worry over her master. He hadn't attended dinner that evening like usual when he was working on a case. She should have been used to it by now, but he barely ate as it was, and with the intensity of his dream the night before, her mind couldn't do anything but be preoccupied with his well-being.

She wiped the china surface for the last time then stared down at her faint image being reflected. Her eyes were dull, almost lifeless. The age lines at her temples had grown darker and deeper. She put a finger softly to her features, tracing the wrinkles and lines. It was all the fretting she went through. She remembered how vivacious she had been and looked when she had first started working there. Not anymore, though. Monsieur Erik had caused her face to age considerably. She was nearing her mid-thirties, but her appearance was that of a woman years older, burdened with a heavy weight.

Madame Giry stretched a reluctant hand forward and, hesitating a moment, traced the inner circle of the plate. There were times, just then being one, where she wished for her youth back, and sometimes even thought of what lay for her beyond that house. Yes, quitting always appealed to her during these moments of somberness. However, she would always forget about any such notion when she saw her daughter. There was no family for her outside of the compound, and Meg received so much from the master that she felt she wouldn't be able to supply any better if they were to move out. She despised the feeling of dependence on Erik. If there was one lesson she could teach her daughter, it would be to make a name for herself and rely on no man.

"Mother?" Meg called loudly, running into the kitchen.

Madame Giry jumped out of her skin. The dish slipped from her grasp and broke into pieces when it hit the floor. She clutched at her racing heart, needing a minute to realize what was going on. Meanwhile, her daughter rushed into the room, more frantic because of the loud clash of the dish.

"Mother, what happened? Are you all right?" She stopped when she was able to view the scene.

"Yes, dear," Madame Giry responded as soon as she caught her breath. "You just startled me, that's all." She gave a small, relieved chuckle. "Really, you must control yourself, Meg." She turned and grabbed an extra towel then bent down to sweep up the mess. "You're late, by the way."

"Well that's the reason why I was so excited." Meg fell to her knees to assist her mother. "Madame kept me after practice to congratulate me on how well I am doing. And guess what else she said, mother!" She sat back on her haunches suddenly very excited.

"What else did she tell you?"

"I am to receive the lead role in the next ballet performance!" Meg squealed.

Madame Giry stopped what she was doing and looked to her daughter. Her jaw was ajar in awe and delight. She dropped the dish towels and leaned inward to give Meg as big a hug as she could muster in the awkward position.

"Oh, Meg! I am so happy for you!" She kissed her cheeks frantically. "You are sure to be amazing. A real charm!"

Meg giggled ecstatically. "Where is Monsieur Erik? I must deliver the good news to him. He'll be so proud."

Madame Giry's tone fell slightly and she separated from the embrace. "He has locked himself up in his study again. You aren't to disturb him when he does this, you know that. He's busy with an assignment."

She handled the towels and scooped up the remaining pieces and threw them into the trash bin. Even though her back was toward her, she could sense Meg's disappointment as she slowly stood. Madame Giry sighed audibly, gripping the counter. Damn, Erik. Damn him for turning Meg's most enthusiastic moment into one of discontentment. She wanted to change the subject. She had to get the girl's mind to a place of joy again.

Madame Giry whirled around with a large smile on her face. "How about I fix you up a small dinner, darling. Does that sound good?"

A small smile crept to her daughter's face, soothing the older woman's soul. "That would be lovely, thank you. In all the rush I'd forgotten how hungry I am."

"Go take a seat at the table and I'll be right out."

Meg obeyed, and Madame Giry was alone again the next moment. She took out the leftover meat from the fridge and placed two thin slices onto an empty plate. Adding to the dinner's variety, she grabbed a dinner roll from the bread basket and sliced a peach. After pouring a glass of milk and grabbing some utensils, she was ready to take the meal out to her daughter. She set the dish and glass down then took a seat across the table.

"This looks delicious," Meg exclaimed, digging in.

Madame Giry watched, delighted. She leaned forward onto the table with her elbows and supported her chin in her hands. A small smile adorned her lips.

"Thank you, mother. This is perfect."

"Anything for you, dear." The attitude at the table seemed too strained still. Madame Giry scooted closer inward and leaned farther forward. Her smile broadened. "Now tell me more about this performance."


	4. Song of Sorrow

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay. I had three tests to study for and two papers to write, so I couldn't find any spare time in which to finish this chapter. I hope it was worth the wait, though. Thanks for the reviews!

**Section 4**

- Song of Sorrow

Erik had heard the unfortunate dish shatter against the floor. It caused a moment's hesitation in his work, but he picked it up again right away. He told himself that nothing could distract him. He had to solve this case quickly for the father's sake, as well as the daughter's. For some reason, he felt strangely attached to this specific case. Perhaps it was because he, too, knew the loss of someone close. He knew it all too well. But so did everyone. With the father being indisposed, though, he felt more of a duty to rescue his daughter…before it was too late for either of them.

An assortment of papers lay strewn about the dark wooden surface of the desk. A few sheets were complete with scribbles. He had jotted down everything he had learned that day, including his rather strange encounter with Monsieur Richeleau. The other sheets of loose leaf were either half started or had large cross marks drawn through them. It was sometimes easier for him to come to conclusions by writing his hypotheses out on paper and with the all the information out in front of him. There was no doubt he already had his suspicions, but he still needed to draw it all together.

The sun had set hours ago, and the only light in the room was artificial and came from a small desk lamp. The darkness seemed to encompass him in a field of timelessness. He could sit at the desk staring at the riddle lain out before him for hours on end without even realizing it. That's usually how he worked. He found he was able to concentrate and think better at night. Everything else became lost in the void outside. However, he seemed to be having a slight mental road block. His head just couldn't clear. It felt like it was about to burst.

Sighing, Erik pushed himself away from the desk and leaned back in the chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes gently, trying anything to help. He just needed a break, a small break. After all, he had shut himself away in this office since he had returned from Richeleau's shop. Erik stood up, slid his hands into his pockets, and strolled casually out from behind the desk. In the far corner of the room was a small instrument stand with a violin resting carefully on it. He had to give a mocking smirk at how many violins coincidentally ended up in this assignment.

Erik lifted up the delicate instrument and weighed it in his hands. He had had that particular piece since he was a boy. It was his oldest companion, and he cherished it deeply. He set it on his shoulder and balanced his chin onto the chin rest. He found the bow held it masterfully between his other fingers. Closing his eyes, he slowly brought it up to the strings and rested it atop them. Then he began to play.

The sound started soft, but soon rose to a higher pitch. The song he had chosen to play was nostalgic, calming. The unhurried fashion he played it in gave even more to the emotion of the musical piece. Each note was precise and on point. It was as if he had played this song over and over again—and he had. It was his favorite tune: perfect for clearing his head and draining him of everything bottled up. He was able to find release in the ancient music. It was the first song he had ever learned to play. It was the song of sorrow.

-----

It was close to three in the morning when Erik finally made it into his bedroom. He undressed sloppily, leaving the articles of clothing strewn about the floor. It wasn't that he was so exhausted he couldn't properly dispose of them. He was still just so caught up in racking his brain for anything he could be missing on the case. He didn't even care about the cleanliness or appearance of his quarters at the precise moment.

He climbed into bed and pulled the covers over his bare body. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, for a while. Even though he knew he had to get up in a few hours time, anyway, and that he should be getting as much sleep as he could because of this, he continued to search the plain white expanse above him for some sort of answer. There was no solution above, though, he decided after who knew how long. He had to let it go for however much was left of the night.

Erik rolled over onto his side. His eyes drooped dangerously with sleep. He continued to resist, afraid of what the unconscious might bring. There had been nightmares every night for…for…ever. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been plagued. That contributed to his sleepless nights. He didn't want to go back into that painful world. He didn't want to see the worst of his past. It was over. There was no changing it. Why couldn't his subconscious just forget about it?

There was no more defying the inevitable. His eyes drew to a gentle close. His mind continued to wander on the edge of oblivion. He continuously told himself that that night was going to be different. It wouldn't happen that night. He softly drifted over the edge. Oh God, he hoped he could escape for that night.

-----

Madame Giry set a plate, consisting of buttered toast, scrambled eggs, and sausage, down in front of Erik. For a moment, he didn't know how to react. He stared dumbly at the food, as if he had never seen such a concoction before. After a minute, he folded the open newspaper in his hands and held it almost like a shield.

"What is this?" he inquired.

"This is your breakfast, Monsieur," Madame Giry informed without a pinch of nerves.

"Madame Giry," he replied slowly, looking into her eyes, "I didn't order any breakfast."

"I know that, sir, but you must eat something." He raised an eyebrow at her persistence. "It's been days since your last meal. It's not healthy. You are going to make yourself sick, or worse…"

At this point, Erik cleared his throat to interrupt her. Even if he didn't intend on saying anything in return, he had to stop her. She was going into dangerous territory.

"Madame Giry," he whispered.

She leaned forward, defiantly, on the table. Her face was close enough to his where she could whisper and they could both hear clearly. It was protection for the conversation against the nonexistent on-listeners in the room.

"You know as well as I do what happens when you become undernourished and weary—when you push yourself too fast. You'll have another episode, Monsieur. You remember what happened last time-" she uttered.

"Yes, we both remember well, I'm sure," he interjected quickly, loudly, harshly. He was annoyed. She was to never bring up that side of him. However, his voice softened slightly and quieted. "I know how much my own body can take, Madame. Now, if you'd please, my tea."

Madame Giry backed up. There was no response she could give. She wanted to lash out at him. She was only trying to protect him, after all. But she curtsied, and obediently went into the kitchen. Erik stared at the table top for a few silent moments, trying to recollect his composure. Then he split open the newspaper once again and continued with his morning read.

Meg came into the dining room minutes later. A large smile beamed on her face, making her appear even more radiant than usual. She stepped lively to the table and plopped down across from him. Her posture was much more proper than other days, and her hands rested nicely in the lap of her black dress. Erik could tell, without even glancing up from the paper, the mood she was in because of the change in the room's energy. It even made him feel lighter, and the tension seemed to just drift off of his shoulders.

"Good morning, Meg," he greeted distractedly.

"Good morning," she replied enthusiastically.

Madame Giry walked into the dining room and stopped abruptly. A small teacup and saucer was in her hands. She surveyed the two occupants for just a moment then continued toward the master of the house. She set the china in front of him and backed up.

"May I tell him, mama?" Meg asked quietly.

Madame Giry, unable to suppress a smiled, grinned and nodded. She folded her hands behind her back and waited in anticipation for the reaction.

"Monsieur," Meg started slowly, "I have delightful news to inform you of, and I only hope that you will be just as elated to know of it as I was…am." The silence that ensued informed her to continue. "Yesterday, after ballet, the instructor kept me late to inform me of good practicing." She glanced impatiently at her mother, who nodded at her. "And to congratulate me on obtaining the lead role in the next performance!"

Erik froze, like he was still processing the news of her debut. Then he folded up his newspaper and set it down on the tabletop. At first it seemed as if the information hadn't affected him. But then a small smile formed on his lips. It was obvious he was proud of her achievement.

"Meg, that is fantastic. I am very pleased," he praised.

"Oh, I knew you would be!" Meg exclaimed. She turned to her mother. "Didn't I say he would be?" She giggled.

"Yes," Madame Giry said simply.

The doorbell rang, echoing throughout the entire empty house. Madame Giry excused herself, wanting to quickly return to enjoy the pleasant atmosphere that had broken out in the dining room. Meanwhile, Erik slid the breakfast plate toward Meg.

"Here, eat it and enjoy. You deserve a good breakfast, but then it's back to work. We must make sure that your performance is spectacular. Everyone must remember your debut."

Meg nodded and began to eat the food before her. Erik sipped his tea and picked up his paper to resume where he had left off, but Madame Giry entered again and had to interrupt him.

"Excuse me, Monsieur. This telegram has just arrived for you."

She presented a simple envelope with an almost unreadable name scrawled in front. Erik took it, ripped it open, and read the few sentences contained inside. He then tucked the little piece of paper into the interior chest pocket of his black suit, and stood up.

"Madame Giry, my hat and cape, if you'd please."

She nodded and removed herself from the room once more. Erik turned to Meg. He bowed slightly and smiled pleasantly. Then he whisked out of the room. In the front hall, Madame Giry adorned him in his top hat and cloak.

"My congratulations on your fine daughter's achievements," Erik said, while fastening the top button of his outerwear. "She is highly talented."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Madame Giry replied quietly.

He was about to exit, but stopped with the door ajar and turned back to her.

"Oh, and one more thing, Madame Giry."

"Yes?"

The volume dropped a few notches lower. "I know it is your duty to keep after my house, but just my house. You have no need to concern yourself over me. I believe I give you enough tasks already. So please, do not put another thought into our previous conversation."

She nodded once, her eyes lowered to the ground. Her face felt hot, and she wouldn't be surprised if she was red in embarrassment.

"Thank you," Erik muttered, and slipped out the door in one brisk movement.


	5. In Order for the End

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a little slow, and it does start to unravel things a little fast. But I enjoyed showing a little depressive side to Monsieur Daaé and a sympathetic side to Erik. I hope you enjoy reading it!

**Section 5**

- In Order for the End

It smelled of the sick—of the dying. A strong aroma of medicine and the like wafted through the air to take any caller off balance. The absence of proper light added to the dismal appeal. Even though the room was rather spacious and contained an adequate amount of furniture-a bed, a wardrobe, a side table, a full length mirror-the musty atmosphere created a claustrophobic environment, like being in a damp cavern. If it wasn't for the love of the bed-ridden man, the room would have been barren of all other life forms.

Monsieur Daaé was a floating head amongst the sea of pillows and blankets. He was hardly distinguishable among the shadows. His hacking and wheezing gave away his position. Raoul sat in an armchair next to the bed, like the obedient lapdog he was. A nurse checked various vitals of her patient, while recording everything down on a clipboard. Bottles, some filled with capsules and some filled with sticky liquid, lined the side table. A couple were already partially empty.

Even though he was used to strong silences, and actually even preferred them at times, Erik was overwhelmed by the awkward quietness when he entered the master bedroom. All eyes turned to him and remained there, except for the nurse's, who went back to her hourly task. Erik walked carefully in and stopped at the edge of the bed. Still, no one spoke. Still, an impending feeling loomed overhead. As if hit by some premonition, he foresaw what was eventually going to become of the old man. It made the situation even more discomforting.

"You sent for me?" Erik spoke softly as soon as the nurse had quitted the room.

"Yes," Monsieur Daaé croaked. It seemed he couldn't say any more because he waved his hand at Raoul, who immediately perked up slightly.

"We are most curious," Raoul continued informing, "about what you have learned so far. If you have learned anything new yet, that is."

"There's nothing set in stone, but I have my suspicions. With a little more research and investigation, though, I believe that-"

"Suspicions?" Raoul interjected loudly. "Suspicions aren't good enough when Christine's life is on the line!"

Monsieur Daaé stopped the young man from jumping out of the seat with the raise of his hand. The lad became quiet and rested back easily against the armchair. The older man erupted into a small fit of coughs that ended as abruptly as it started. He took a wheezing breath in. The wait made it seem like he was trying to build up strength or energy to continue on.

"This entire incident, Monsieur," he choked, "has weighed greatly on my heart and my health. I know you are working to the best of your ability, but any way I can assist in a faster solution to this case, I am willing to give it my all." He took a few deep heaves, trying to catch his breath. "Please know that this means the world to me."

"Sir, I do not mean to be rude," Erik interrupted, "but every client tells me the same thing."

Monsieur Daaé nodded and continued slowly, "I understand. And I know that I also cannot offer you as much as your other clients." The sides of his mouth went up and he began to wheeze, which was meant to be a laugh. "It seems that life turns cruel toward the end. I wonder if any one man can die with a happy heart and clear mind."

Raoul reached over and grabbed Monsieur Daaé's feeble hand. He whispered a few comforting words into the old man's ear. Erik felt a pang in the pit of his stomach. He was definitely getting too personal with this case. He was trying to detach himself, but it seemed to just suck him in even more.

"I apologize, Monsieur," Erik mumbled. "I didn't mean to offend or produce pessimistic thoughts." He cleared his throat. "Perhaps if you gave me a bit more information—is there anything you can tell me that could be of any possible importance?"

"No, I can't think of anything." Monsieur Daaé searched the wall for an answer with his eyes. "Sometimes Christine would sneak out to the streets to sing for the public and collect any money they donated to her. When I found out, I demanded she stop for her own safety. Like the angel she is, she listened."

"Do you know of any of the specific streets?"

"No, no." He paused then lit up. "Oh! I caught her on-" He stopped and shut his eyes, trying to think. "The street name has slipped my mind. Old age deters me once again." It seemed as if the possibly significant news was about to slip right through their fingers. However, Monsieur Daaé wasn't finished. "It's the street that holds the instrument shop. It's been there years and years."

Erik froze. His eyes focused hard on the backboard of the bed above his client's head. He felt it: he felt the conclusion drawing near. It was all starting to tie together, very slowly, but there was definitely something there.

"The old instrument shop," Erik pondered to himself.

"Yes, it's the only one within miles, I believe," the old man confirmed, overhearing Erik, even though he had spoken barely audibly.

"How well do you know Monsieur Richeleau?" Erik asked coming back into himself. "After all, he owns the only instrument related shop, and you are a violin player. It wouldn't surprise me if you two were fairly well acquainted."

"You may think so, but the truth is I barely know the gentleman. Of course, we exchanged a few words here and there whenever I entered his store, but that was the extent of our relationship."

Erik brought his hand to his chin in contemplation. "Hmm, that is curious."

"What is curious?" Monsieur Daaé asked quickly.

The sudden burst of adrenaline shook his bones. Even though a tremor coursed throughout his body, and Raoul leaned over to assist him back to a comfortable position, he stood strong against all odds to soak up anything that would bring the reunion between him and his daughter closer.

"That you and Monsieur Richeleau have no real relationship beyond a few humble words," Erik replied nonchalantly.

"But why?" Monsieur Daaé pushed.

"Yesterday, didn't Monsieur Richeleau visit your residence?" Swiftly he added, "I didn't mean to pry into any personal conversations. It was just something I overheard."

A light seemed to start to flicker in the old man's mind, but his opposite, Raoul, seemed less impressed. His brows furrowed and he leaned forward in the armchair. He addressed Erik in a scolding manner, as if this deduction wasn't worthwhile.

"That still leaves us with nothing. He could have been informed of the location by Christine when she dropped off the violin."

"Monsieur," Erik sighed, shifting his position, "why would Christine give away such private information to a man that her and her father barely know?"

"Perhaps she had wanted to surprise Monsieur Daaé with a delivery of the violin." Raoul was not giving up. He was going to prove that he was strong and capable.

"Ah, do you not recall that Monsieur Richeleau had declared, yesterday, that she had not come to pick up the instrument?" There was a moment of silence. Raoul was struck mute. There was no way he could counter that. "But maybe I am becoming forgetful." He added under his breath, "I think not, though."

Raoul stood violently, the chair screeching against the floor as it slid backward a foot. Erik didn't flinch. Monsieur Daaé turned and motioned with his hand for Raoul to take a seat, but to no avail. The young man wasn't going to listen to anyone.

"I think that is my cue." Erik bowed. "Monsieur, it is time I take my leave. I apologize if I have offended you in any way. It was not my intention."

"Please think nothing of the sort," Monsieur Daaé soothed.

Erik erected his posture, but tipped his top hat to show even more respect. Raoul was still fuming, not buying any of it. But the old man smiled humbly and forgivingly. He still believed in the ability of the hired detective. Erik pivoted and went to the shabby door. He turned the knob and was about to exit, but turned back once more to address his client.

"Oh, and Monsieur."

"Yes?"

"Yours will be the perfect end. You will have that happy heart and clear mind. I give my word."

With a sweep of his cloak, he disappeared.


	6. Admittance to the Backroom

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Here's a little look inside the mysterious Monsieur Richeleau. I hope it doesn't give too much away, though. Enjoy!

**Chapter 6**

- Admittance to the Backroom

Something wasn't right. He could tell even from the distance he was at that something wasn't right. His pace began to steadily slow as he approached closer and closer. He didn't know what to expect, but he wasn't about to be surprised at anything. He knew it wasn't going to be dramatic. It was just going to be…off…

And he was right. Standing in front of the large front window, Erik stared dumbly into the darkness of the old instrument shop. Nothing stirred inside. It was completely still. It was completely silent. A small viewable sign gave away the reason behind all of this. It read 'Closed' in thick red lettering. It wasn't necessarily out of the norm. Stores closed all the time after dark. The only thing bothering him, though, was that it wasn't after dark. No, it was still very much light out—about midday. And midday was always the busiest time of day. So that brought one question to his mind: why would Monsieur Richeleau close his shop during the most profitable period?

Erik tore his gaze away and looked up and down the street he was on. This was definitely the one Monsieur Daaé had been referring to. The corner wasn't even that far away. If anyone positioned herself there, she could be heard from this spot. There was no doubt in his mind now that Monsieur Richeleau had been able to hear Christine Daaé singing from the street corner. He wouldn't even be surprised if the man had tipped her off for her songs.

The rising suspicions and various theories as to why the shop was closed triggered something else in Erik's mind. Ideas began to formulate in his head—dangerous ideas. Before he could have any doubts as to what he was about to do, he slipped down the alley next to the shop and toward the back of the building. At first it seemed like it was all happening so fast. His feet were acting on their own will. But the adrenaline inside of him was pumping and his heart was beating so fast. There was nothing he could do but become excited about the entire thing.

No one dared enter the back alley. It was completely dedicated to garbage and unwanted things. The pressure decreased due to this knowledge. There was a very worn, shabby wooden backdoor and a couple windows looking into the instrument shop. Other than that, there was no admittance. Even with these few gaps in the brick wall barrier, there was no assurance that even those could be penetrated. This possible obstacle, however, did not deter Erik. He had his ways of overcoming anything in his path.

First he tried the handle of the door, but to no avail. Of course it would be locked at all times from the outside. He didn't get disappointed. Immediately he switched to the first window, and found success there. It was unlocked, but rusty. A few good shoves inward were necessary before it finally gave. There wasn't much space, but it would be suitable. As he carefully climbed up and into the now open window, he was inwardly elated at the fact that his plan had been accomplished: gain access into the closed workshop.

Erik was cautious not to disturb anything as he slipped inside. A large worktable lay directly beneath him with all bits of odds and ends strewn about its surface, but he cleared it successfully. There was a strong odor of paints and polishes and woods. The ground was covered in splashes of browns and shavings, except for a good sized carpet that took up the middle of the floor. There were also a few sets of drawers and cabinets, and a desk resided in the opposite corner.

The sun filtering through the windows provided sufficient light into the room for him to properly see everything. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary or suspicious in anyway as he turned about. It was a normal work station, equipped with the necessary tools and gadgets. He strolled to a cabinet set to determine whether or not the incriminating evidence could be hidden. However, drawer after drawer turned up more proper instruments that would be found in such a shop. Each cabinet and set of drawers contained similar finds. It seemed like nothing would turn up on this guy.

Erik couldn't help thinking that he had hit a dead end. The area was clean and ordinary. Were all of his suspicions about Monsieur Richeleau wrong? Was the weird behavior he sensed all in his mind? Perhaps he was becoming too involved in this case. That had to be what was clouding his judgment. Erik fell softly into the chair behind the small wooden desk. Disappointment weighed heavily on his shoulders, but also on his consciousness. His lids felt suddenly heavy, and his energy level suddenly felt very low.

As he drooped closer and closer to the desktop, boredom overcame his being. Without much expectation, his gaze landed on the drawers running up one side of the desk. He began to open each one by one, and swiftly glance over the contents held in each. The first consisted of writing utensils and other small accessories of the sort. The second contained papers and sketches. He rifled through these slightly, but found nothing worthwhile. Although, he had to comment on the skill of each drawing. The third drawer, upon first glimpse, seemed to be the most uninteresting. It was completely empty, save for a small piece of string.

Erik's eyes widened slightly against their will. He continued to stare down at that little piece of string, becoming more and more curious. Why would there be such a large, spacious drawer dedicated to this mere twine? The mind-boggling question seemed to wake him from his ebbing energy. Finally, he couldn't resist anymore, and he reached down and grabbed the thread. Expecting it to come up swiftly, his heart skipped a beat when he discovered it to be stuck to the bottom. Why was it attached so? He pulled forcefully a few times before small popping noise erupted and the bottom of the drawer came out. It was a fake.

Finding a counterfeit base allowed Erik's original adrenaline to rise again. He set the wooden plank carefully onto the desktop then peered into the drawer. All that lay beneath the sham was a single silver key. Erik leaned down picked it up. He held it close to his face to examine it better. It was just a normal key. There was nothing exceptional about it. He looked around the room from his spot behind the desk. He furrowed his brows in concern.

"Where do you belong to, my little friend?" he whispered.

Erik stood and walked to the center of the room. Slowly, he pivoted to take every inch in. The cabinets had not contained anything that needed a key. There wasn't even an outer lock on the metal sets. No, he went over to the large workbench beneath the set of windows. He surveyed the surface first, but there was nothing that could be locked atop it—just particles of past projects and loose tools. Then he knelt down so he was face to face with the drawers below. He ran a finger steadily down the line of them, as if playing a choice game. He stopped when his finger fell onto the very last, bottom drawer.

He pulled open the drawer and looked down into it. There was a small metal box resting innocently there. Erik sighed, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Just as predictable as I thought," he murmured to himself.

A sudden rattling from the front of the store jolted Erik to his feet. Panic crossed over his face. Even though he was at the very opposite end, he could see the handle of the entrance jiggling. He could see Monsieur Richeleau playing with the lock. Any moment he would walk into the store and discover Erik. He had to move, fast.

-----

Monsieur Richeleau let the door fall closed behind him. He had no free hands to shut it on his own, and was grateful that it had been made heavy. He didn't stop until he reached the workbench in the back. The tub he held was cumbersome, and he was overwhelmed with relief to finally set it down. He had to take a couple big breaths before he could properly relax. But afterward, he froze, and looked around his surroundings, as if they were completely new to him.

But he knew exactly where he was. In fact, he knew it all too well. That was why he had to stop and check about him. He felt as if something was off, as if something were out of place. It set his nerves on edge. No one was allowed back there. Not one single person. Everything he had accomplished up to that point would have been in vain. All of his work would be ruined.

Despite this disturbing feeling, there was nothing Monsieur Richeleau could find that had been unsettled. Even as he went to reopen shop, he still couldn't shake this strange sensation. It rested in the back of his mind the entire day. Who had entered into his back room?

-----

Erik moved away from the small building, gaze plastered on the ground in front of each footstep. He had been successful in putting everything back where he had found it—making it look as if he hadn't even inhabited it for those several minutes. Then he had just escaped to the outside in the knick of time. Luckily for him, Monsieur Richeleau had been obstructed by a large white barrel in his arms. Even though he was thoroughly thankful for this hindrance, it aroused his suspicion.

Erik halted across the street. He leaned against a lamppost and stared straight ahead into the instrument shop. His eyes would have burned a hole through the large front window if they could. He just couldn't figure it out. Monsieur Richeleau had closed shop just to get that barrel? Why? Where was this going? And why did he need a tub of bronzer?


	7. Endless Night

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Sorry if this chapter seems a little pointless. I guess it gives a smidge away about the mystery of Erik, while still being subtle. I just wanted to show his devotion to his work and a little something more…Oh, and I really like his encounter with the owl. Don't ask me why, it's just neat and it just…fits…

**Chapter 7**

- Endless Night

Time passed quickly when one thing possessed the mind entirely. People passed quickly on the streets, exchanging curious glances. Birds chattered and flew from tree to tree, not as interested in the 'spectacle' so much as the humans. The clouds shifted from one point in the sky to another. The little bell clanged a few times. And the sun eventually began to dip below the horizon, casting shadows from their hiding places and covering the town in darkness. Still, Erik waited.

Nothing could distract him or tear his gaze away. He was focused on the task at hand and wouldn't budge to geysers exploding around him. His eyes were intense and hard, cold even. He forgot about his posture and expression within the driving force. His legs were crossed in front of him, while he was supported by the lamppost behind him. One arm cupped the elbow of the other, which was up toward his face. His hand encompassed his chin in deep contemplation. The look he wore brought out wrinkles that came with the job. A large frown weighed down his jaw.

That and the addition of the white porcelain mask were enough to assume the worst about him. That's why a majority, if not all, of the passersby couldn't help casting inquisitive glances or unsettling glares his way. He received each one unfazed and uninterested. He had blocked them out quickly. No longer could he hear the whispers as the pedestrians hurried away. No longer would he dare look in their eyes to read what was on their minds as they conspicuously stared. They thought the worst of him in a moment when he was trying his best to solve a mystery and aid a poor old man in his last request. They didn't know this. Still, Erik waited.

Finally the realm of darkness was upon the town. The once crowded streets were now barren. It was rare to find anyone out after dark. The night was a time for drunks and no good people. Sometimes there would be a group stumbling home from a party, but this was still scarce. Everyone knew what waited in the deepest shadows and dimmest corners. Nothing good came from the darkness.

Despite this unspoken curfew rule, Erik remained stationed in the same spot he had held the entire day. He hadn't moved a muscle to the change of time. He was not a normal citizen. The darkness did not frighten him. He knew it all too well. It had, in fact, become an unrelenting part of his life. There was no way for him to escape so he had stopped trying long ago. Instead, he learned to tolerate it and its inhabitants.

"Monsieur?" an old man with a broom moustache addressed him. Erik didn't take notice of his guest. "Monsieur, I must light the lamp. Will you move?"

Erik didn't answer. He remained where he was, not a single movement shaking his body. The old man simply nodded and proceeded with his job. With the long pole, he opened the glass container at the top then set the oil within it ablaze. Immediately, the circular perimeter was alight by the flickering flame. The man closed the case and, after taking another look at Erik, continued on his way to finish his task.

The lights were still on. Every other shop on the street had closed and the owners had gone home long ago, but he still remained there. Obviously, there were many reasons why he would stay later. Perhaps he was working on some instruments or creating some of his own. However, Erik wasn't convinced that easily. He had his own suspicions about what was occurring inside that shop.

He had watched Monsieur Richeleau go through normal closing routines at the beginning of the night. He had swept up, wiped down the counters, straightened the displays. Then he took his leave to that infamous backroom. It had only been about an hour ago that he had disappeared behind that heavy curtain separating the public area from the private area.

Erik was wary, waiting for the right moment. He didn't want Monsieur Richeleau to finally notice that he had been, and was still in the process of being, spied on. In fact, he didn't know why, but he was slightly surprised that he hadn't been caught. There were enough gawkers during the day to draw attention. Besides, he was directly in front of the main front window of the instrument shop. If Monsieur Richeleau had merely glanced outside for a minute or two, he would have noticed the strange man with the mask hovering outside on his every movement.

Erik believed he had put enough time in between Monsieur Richeleau's retreat and his advance, so he decided to finally move. It was the first motion he had made all day since becoming attached to the pole. He straightened in stature and strolled slowly toward the shop. He took the familiar route around to the back that he had discovered earlier that day. Each step he took was soft and easy. Even though the alley was devoid of any light, he still seemed to function like it was midday. He avoided anything and everything that would give away his position. He was careful, sneaky.

There was definitely a good amount of sound emitting from the room for that time of night. It helped him assess where exactly Monsieur Richeleau was standing. Erik went all the way to the end of the line of windows where the sound was the faintest then carefully propped himself up so he could peer inside. The stool he used was little more than a cardboard box. However, he had renounced meals time and time again, and was left with a very thin frame and low weight in consequence. Now was the time when he would show Madame Giry that his habits were just fine.

Within the building, Erik could just make out Monsieur Richeleau on the opposite end with the large barrel of bronzer he had carried in earlier that day. Erik knew he wouldn't be able to be seen, but continued to remain low and still and quiet. It was hard to actually see what was going on with that tub, but he assumed that it must relate to getting the top off. A weird prying noise was what he had heard when approaching. He could now see that it corresponded to the forceful motion Monsieur Richeleau was busy doing. However, by the rather violent effort and minutes that flew by without much success, Erik guessed it wasn't working out too well.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, there was a loud sucking noise and then a big pop! Monsieur Richeleau lifted the lid off of the white barrel and placed it on the table next to him. He moved away to retrieve something from his desk, giving Erik a fairly good view of the contents. The bronzer was dark and thicker in density. If that liquid wasn't kept in motion, either, it would harden quickly. That was something else that confused Erik. Monsieur Richeleau was going to have to use this stuff soon or else face the consequences. But what could possibly need that amount of bronzer?

Suddenly, catching him off guard, a large gray object swooped down on Erik's head with a loud shriek. Erik ducked, almost falling from the box he stood atop of. Instantly his body froze. He listened and waited. There was no sound. Had Monsieur Richeleau heard the commotion? Was he going to come outside and discover Erik's whereabouts? He had no answer to these questions. He just kept telling himself to remain low, remain quiet, and remain still.

Meanwhile, his eyes searched the area for whatever it was that had almost decapitated him. A low fluttering of wings off to the side caught his attention. He turned his head in that direction and spotted a large gray owl land nearby. The bird let out a small hoot and blinked at him. This became fairly peculiar to him. It seemed like he was now the one being spied on and this bird was the watcher.

"Where'd you come from, little fellow?" Erik questioned the creature.

The bird cocked its head to one side. A small smirk slowly formed on Erik's lips. He found himself relaxing around the bird without even meaning to. He felt connected to it in a strange way that only the nocturnal beast could understand.

"You and I are one in the same, my friend. We are both predators of the night," Erik whispered to it.

The bird's head turned to the other side. Its large eyes remained fixed on him with all their perplexity and savagery.

"Like you, I, too, am on the lookout for prey."

"Who?" the owl asked back.

"That has yet to be determined, my friend. But I'm close. I feel it. I'm very close."

Sound erupted from inside the building. Again, Erik froze. He pressed himself against the dirty wall. He turned his head toward the door, expecting it to open at any moment and Monsieur Richeleau to walk outside. He could see the entire scene playing out in his mind. He was done for. The entire search he had spent on this man would be over in the blink of an eye.

But Erik continued to wait. He didn't know how long he spent hugging the wall and waiting for the worst to come true. The sound had stopped what seemed like hours ago. The only thing he heard now was his ragged breathing. He began to wonder if he had assumed wrongly. Light still fell on the disgusting pavement in front of him, so he knew that Monsieur Richeleau hadn't left the shop yet. But if the previous noise hadn't been him trying to get to the source of the disturbance, then what was it?

Erik cautiously extended to his full height. Holding his breath, he peered through the glass and into the workshop. The air in his lungs was released in a questioning gasp. It was empty. It was completely empty. He had lost sight of his prey, and was now lost on what to do. Still, he believed the man hadn't returned home yet. He would never leave the shop in such a state.

His muscles went lax in confusion and he no longer cared how inconspicuous he should be. Somehow Monsieur Richeleau had found a way to escape his gaze. Had he noticed Erik's presence after all, then? Did he feel the need to get away because of this? Erik was thoroughly bewildered. He had thought he knew most of what there was to know about the place. He had definitely not seen any type of door or other passage besides the front and back entrance.

He examined the empty room with his gaze. No sign of life at all. He ceased his exploration when he reached the spot Monsieur Richeleau had been occupying. His eyes went wide and panic seemed to strike every nerve, even though he couldn't necessarily pinpoint why. The large barrel of bronzer was missing. The spot it had occupied on the wooden table was empty, except for the lid.

Erik turned away from the window and hopped down from the cardboard box. He didn't know what to make of the situation. Both Monsieur Richeleau and the bucket of bronzer were missing, and he had no idea where to. How could he lose his main suspect and an important part of the investigation in such a short amount of time? He knew that bronzer meant something, but he wasn't about ready to make a prediction on it quite yet. He just couldn't conclude on anything.

"One step forward, two steps backward," he mumbled to himself. "I will find him."

"Who?"

Erik glanced upward quickly just in time to see the owl, which had been perched in the same exact spot the entire time, took flight with a couple flaps of its wings.


	8. The AllConsuming Beast

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note: **Pardon the wait. I have been incredibly stressed the last week, and have had no free time to update. Three exams and midterm papers will do that. I've also been feeling rather under the weather. So I hope you enjoy this next chapter even if it is not as up to par as those before it. And please forgive the lack of length. The next chapter will, hopefully, make up for it.

P.S. Sorry about that weird change from "section" to "chapter". It shouldn't happen again.

**Section 8**

- The All-Consuming Beast

Erik had taken up roost back on the familiar lamppost. He had gone twice around the building, and after being satisfied that there were no other possible exits, he had resumed his stake out. It seemed the farther and farther he claimed interest in this Monsieur Richeleau, the more and more twisted this case became. True, he was used to the strange and unusual. He, and most others, even categorized himself as strange and unusual. The only aspect that he disliked of such projects, though, was the inability to see what lay ahead. Anything could happen, and it always did.

He uncharacteristically rubbed the hazel eye that was not abstracted by the white mask adorning his face. The vision of the instrument house had been dancing in front of him for a while. His sight had seemed to grow a bit fuzzy and out of focus ever since he had returned to his station. The shot of adrenaline he had undergone in the back alley had quickly dissipated, leaving him wearier than he had initially imagined being. He even assumed, with a slight smirk, that if it were not for the metal pole running up along his spine, he might just fall over.

Erik was not one to admit weakness or defeat, though. He would never intentionally give in to either. However, Madame Giry's warning came back to him time and time again as he waited, watching and listening. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to how he was getting by. But he always acted like this before and nothing serious ever occurred. This reassurance quelled his worries for the time being. He just had to keep reminding himself that nothing was going to happen. He was going to be fine. Nothing was going to happen.

A loud bang echoed off of the sleeping buildings. Erik's posture straightened at the sudden noise. His eyes widened, and he stared harder at the instrument shop. Where had that come from? What had caused it? Erik wanted to know. The inability to act was unbearable, but if he made any move now, it would all be over. Monsieur Richeleau would win. The girl would be lost forever. His promise would be bust. He would lose.

Seconds. Minutes. An hour or two. Finally he observed the posterior interior lights starting to extinguish. The owner was finally leaving. The actual time was unfamiliar. Erik could just picture what Monsieur Richeleau was doing. Or at least what any other normal closer would be doing. He would recheck every cabinet and case, and make sure that the floor and counters were spotless. He would test the front door to ensure it was locked. In the back, he would straighten up slightly and pack the belongings he needed to take home. Then, with one last glance over the room, he would turn out the lights and lock the door.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary when Monsieur Richeleau emerged from the back minutes later. There was a briefcase clutched in one hand and the other was adjusting the top hat adorning his head. The large overcoat he wore hid his husky frame. He looked completely normal—completely unsuspicious. He stopped as he reached the opening of the alley, and glanced up and down the street. It should have been apparent that no one would be out at that hour-whatever hour it was-but he insisted on checking both directions. After turning onto the main stretch of road, he kept a calm, casual pace.

What was Erik to do? What else: stalk his prey.

Erik kept a very safe distance. He made sure his footsteps were light and undetectable. His body was going away with him again. He hardly knew how he had gotten there. His mind continuously questioned his reasoning and his actions, but there were no answers available; and still, his feet moved in front of him.

His senses began changing on him. His vision leapt psychotically from one thing to the next. His hearing turned into a tunnel. Every little sound seemed near enough to touch, even Monsieur Richeleau's heartbeat. The smell of bakeries and restaurants he passed seemed to linger in front of his nose. His taste buds prickled his tongue, hungry for a savory flavor. His pace quickened unconsciously.

Erik could hear Monsieur Richeleau's pulse quicken. He knew that he was being followed. There was always a suspicion that kicked in when one was being followed. It was like a sixth sense. Now the owner's was telling him he was not alone. This assumption merely caused Erik to move faster.

Every nerve in his body ached as his assumptions of Monsieur Richeleau's guilt flooded into his mind. He wanted to wrap his hand around the man's throat and squeeze until the veins popped. He wanted to see the horrified expression that always appeared right before the end. He wanted to see the life flutter out of this man's eyes. He would bring swift justice down on the guilty. They would taste redemption through death. The notion brought a crazed grin to his face. He was losing his mind. It was taking over. He was drowning once again.

The transformation from civil man to primitive, instinctual beast actually took minutes upon minutes, but only seemed like seconds to the inflicted. He had no way of fighting against the ravenous creature. It was too strong, too hungry. It was coming out with a vengeance, and all Erik felt like he could do was sit back and watch helplessly as it fulfilled every hidden desire he himself was afraid to bring forth.

Soon Erik was right on top of Monsieur Richeleau. That was the point when the man turned to encounter his worst suspicions. Upon first seeing the disheveled, raging being, Monsieur Richeleau's manner immediately turned frantic. His expression dropped in horror and a tremor continuously plagued his body. In a swift motion, Erik had him against the wall of one of the buildings. His arm was up at the man's throat and the other held his jacket untidily.

"W-What do y-you want?" Monsieur Richeleau stammered. Even in the dim street, it was quite obvious all the colored had drained from his face. He was as white as a ghost. "W-Who are you?"

"People like you don't get to ask questions," Erik rasped in a deep, throaty voice. It was different from his original. If it wasn't for the white mask adorning his face, still, there would have been no possible way to relate Erik and this creature to one in the same.

"Y-You're t-that man f-from the s-shop!" Monsieur Richeleau gasped.

"Ding, ding, ding!" Erik congratulated sarcastically. "You're prize is a final request."

"A f-final r-request?" It was like he hadn't caught what was just spat into his ear.

"Going once! Going twice!" Erik returned.

"Why!" Monsieur Richeleau screamed to the night, stopping the countdown.

Erik glared satanically at him. His jaw protruded in anger, revealing threatening fangs. "Why? Why?!" he called. "You dare to even ask that damn question?" He paused, looking over the man's sweaty face. "If you really want an answer, ask Mademoiselle Daaé or Monsieur Daaé, you filthy pig!"

Erik was literally spitting and foaming on his face. Monsieur Richeleau closed his eyes tightly, tear streaming from the edges. He was sure he was doomed now, Erik could tell. However, something caused the adrenaline to run cold in his veins. He stopped, getting that frustrated look in his face again. He looked over his shoulder at what horizon could be seen beyond the towering buildings. The sky was slowly being painted with reds and pinks: Sunrise.

Suddenly he fell to his knees, clutching his head in agony. His eyes were clenched and a shrill cry was escaping his throat. It was animalistic and foreign. There had never been anything like it before. Monsieur Richeleau, luck being on his side, took the chance to run away. Erik was too involved in the feeling of his body being torn into two to even give the man a second thought.

The pain, the agony, the fight.

There was still resistance left. It wasn't going to be that easy to fell him.

Somehow he managed to get to his feet. The cry continued to emanate from his lips as he bounced off of each building down the street. There were no directions in his mind. His feet did the navigating. He tugged and pulled at his hair. He became even more disheveled and mad looking. Meanwhile, the sun continued to slowly rise in the sky.

The sun, the light, the day.

Anything, but that!

Erik's vision swam, but he recognized the street. One foot in front of the other. Another step, and another, and another. He swayed and tottered dangerously. Right ahead, just a little farther ahead. Each foot weighed as much as a cement block. He eased his way forward, though. The tunnel was getting tighter and tighter. The day was dawning, but he was slowly sinking back into the darkness. He just couldn't give in. He had to keep fighting…

The first rays of the new day stretched across Erik's unconscious form, strewn out on the sidewalk.


	9. Shimmering Crimson

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Sorry if this chapter seems kinda short, too. I don't know what is going on with me. Oh well, enjoy! I rather liked some aspects about this part. See if you can catch the reference. ;)

**Section 9**

- Shimmering Crimson

He was dead. He knew it. He finally succumbed to defeat. He had to be dead. There was no other perceivable explanation. He was bathed in darkness with no distinguishable shadow present. His body felt suspended, making every muscle lax and unmovable. There was no energy within his vessel. Every appendage weighed a ton. All he wanted to do was drift off into the surrounding void. But his mind pounded like someone was beating it like a drum. It was devoid of all thought, of all reason. There was nothing present except that pounding. If it wasn't for that, he could have…he would have…

Erik opened his eyes, but remained motionless. His gaze was awash in the intricate pattern of his bedroom ceiling. There was a harsh ticking echoing from some unknown location. Even though it was soft in reality, to Erik it was the loudest and most annoying sound ever to reach his ears. Still, he didn't move. He endured its impending tune, counting down to the end of something, to the end of nothing. He took a deep breath and let his eyes flutter shut.

The door handle jiggled noisily and then the door swung open. The footsteps that entered were muffled by the carpet that padded the floor. They reached the side of his bed, and he heard a clink of china on the nightstand. It must have been obvious that he had woken up; otherwise he was unsure whether his guest would be making such a ruckus. However, he remained how he was, not chancing a glance or making an address. A soft squeak followed by a thud confused him. He wondered what else was going on in the world outside of his eyelids.

"You have awakened finally," a soft, feminine voice uttered.

There was a small clink and the gentle flow of some sort of liquid. Erik continued in his fake state. He knew that he wasn't fooling the woman, but it was beyond that now. Relief washed over him as he lay in the darkened expanse of his mind. He was alone here. No one could reach him. Yet he knew that it was only temporary. He would have to emerge eventually.

"I would be lying if I said I wasn't worried about you, but I know that this is just a minute bump in the road for you," she continued.

Erik opened his eyes again. It seemed to take a great amount of strength to simply turn his head and identify Madame Giry. She had just finished pouring a cup of tea and was setting the teapot down. She had pulled up a chair next to his bed, and had basically made herself comfortable in order to properly care for him. Sensing his stare, she looked down at him semi-peripherally for just a moment before returning to the tea preparation.

"How long?" he asked.

"I found you just about dawn on the street outside. I had grown concerned when you didn't arrive home. If I wasn't out looking for you already, you would probably still be unconscious on the pavement," she informed lightly. "It is now early afternoon."

Erik sighed. "That's too long. I have to get up." He tried to sit up on his elbows, but he felt too weak to even lift himself. A small grunt emanated from his throat at the simple task.

Madame Giry immediately stretched toward him, restraining him by the shoulders, even though he couldn't get farther even if he tried. She gently pushed him back down. She was so strong compared to his aching frame. He couldn't believe the power she now had over him.

"You will not leave this bed for any occasion. Your body is exhausted from lack of sleep and proper nutrition." She paused, sitting against the backrest. "I warned you of what would happen." Here it came. "I hate to say I told you so…"

"Then don't," Erik grumbled.

Madame Giry nodded and turned to the tea set. Erik let his head fall sideways again, pressing it into the pleasurable pillow. The weight pressed the outline of the mask lightly into his skin. He was relieved it was still on, but had to admit that he had forgotten all about it.

"I fixed your normal dose of tea," Madame Giry said as if there had not just been an awkward exchange. "But I also brought a vial of your stronger…medicine."

She held up a tube of red liquid. Erik's eyes became transfixed on the contents. From where he was positioned, he could see a glint within the bottle causing it to become noticeably translucent. However, it was still noticeably thick and sticky. He couldn't tear his gaze away. His mouth went dry longing for a taste. His pulse quickened at just the sight. He wanted to reach out and snatch it, and probably would despite his lack of strength. But he restrained himself. If he fulfilled his desire, he might become dependent. That was the last thing he wanted. Instead, he allowed himself to be satisfied with the mere sight of the liquid—the shimmering crimson.

He nodded as best as he could, and Madame Giry twisted the little black top off and poured the contents over the filled teacup. Erik turned his head in the opposite direction as she completed this task. He closed his eyes and tried to reduce his rapid breathing back to normal. Those vials barely ever surfaced from the basement, where they were locked up in a large freezer. They were meant only for emergencies. Apparently, this was one of them.

"Do you know of anything that occurred last night?" he asked, trying to get his mind off of the medicine.

"I know nothing. As I told you already, I only found you just outside the residence." A spoon tinkled against the china as she stirred the mixture together.

"I'm sure something happened. I can feel it. Damn this wretched…" he trailed off. The possibilities of what he might have done already weighed heavily on his soul. He couldn't take being physically, spiritually, and mentally out of control. "Is it ready yet?" His voice had turned into a whisper. His throat was dry and cracking. He hurt, and he just wanted to drift away from the ache.

"Yes, here."

Madame Giry turned Erik's face toward her and lowered the teacup to his lips. He sat up as much as possible, while she poured some of the liquid into his mouth. He let the warm concoction sit in his mouth for a moment before dripping down his throat. It felt good coating his throat. It relaxed him and calmed him. He rested back against the propped pillows in a slight state of euphoria. The medicine was already taking affect. He could feel new life coursing through his veins. His body warmed; his spirits soared.

"I also brought some food if you are capable of eating solid foods a bit later," Madame Giry said quietly. "Otherwise, I will not be content until you finish off this cup of tea."

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, it is very good."

Madame Giry felt her heart skip a beat as she looked down at his thin frame. His skin was so pale and sunken. He appeared weak and frail and defenseless amongst the array of pillows and blankets. His hair stood out as a black mass in contrast to everything else. She reached a shaky hand toward his head to wipe a thick lock matted to his forehead. She stopped, hesitating, and went no further with just a few inches remaining between their skin. She pulled her hand back fast. Her nerves were completely shot. For some reason, just by viewing his sad state, she was forlorn and scared. She didn't know what exactly to think.

"What's the matter?" he whispered, supposedly unaware of what she had just tried to do.

"Nothing," she replied quickly, grabbing up the teacup. "Take another sip."

She again poured the liquid into his throat. Erik allowed it to run down the back of his throat, relishing in it once again. The sensation remained strong. The taste lingered on his taste buds. Drunks had their liquor; Erik had his medication. Unlike the drunks, though, he would not allow himself to become dependent or hooked. He would not let the liquid run his life and invade his senses. He was capable of anything when that happened. From previous experience, he was never going back to that stage.

"I will let you rest now." Madame Giry pushed the chair back and stood up. Erik nodded slightly, not really paying attention. "Please do not fret about anything the rest of today. Let your mind be at peace for once." Again with the nod of disinterest. Madame Giry curtsied. "Sleep soundly."

She moved to the door and stopped within its frame. She took a glance over her shoulder at her poor employer. She didn't know what to do. Don't fret, she had told him. She should have been repeating that to herself. Again he was causing her to worry. She shook her head, grabbed the doorknob, and closed it carefully behind her.

'Damn you,' she thought, while parting. 'Damn you.'

The ceaseless ticking no longer caused mental anguish for Erik. He allowed his imagination to soar with it into a comforting lullaby. He felt a warmth encompass and hold him in place. His mind fell into a peaceful state with nothing drifting in or out. If he could remain within the confines of the friendly darkness, he would be content the rest of his life. It coaxed to him, bade him to stay. He obeyed.

The case that had dominated his life for the last few days was now a distant memory. There was no longer a girl in trouble. There was no longer a need for urgency. The promise to a dying man no longer existed. Time itself had disappeared from his unconscious world. There was nothing except Erik and the shimmering crimson.


	10. The Descent

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Jekyll and Hyde is the correct answer! A very good musical that deserves more respect and praise, Jekyll and Hyde contributes to the inspiration I have in some of these chapters. If you've never heard/seen this musical, I highly recommend it. Just don't watch the David Hasselhoff version…oh boy…

**Section 10**

- The Descent

_That music. That beautiful music. Where was it coming? What was the source?_

_It was so dark. Nothing was distinguishable. He could only find his way by following the entrancing song. It was like the wonderful tune spun a world of fantasies around him. But he could not see anything. He continued moving forward, or at least what he thought to be forward. He had to reach that beautiful music._

_Suddenly, ahead of him, a glow came to life. It seemed to be at the end of an infinite corridor. He was surrounding by bleak blackness on either side, but straight ahead…that's where he needed to go. He needed to reach the end of the passage no matter how long it took him, no matter how impossible it seemed._

_He pumped his legs faster. He strove forward with more effort. He felt the breeze of his quick pace, and the increased rhythm of his heartbeat. Even though he experienced all of the effects of sprinting for time on end, it looked as if he had gotten no where. The white light was still far off. The darkness still sucked up every step he left behind. He couldn't give up. He was capable of overcoming any obstacle, including this._

_Believe it or not, eventually he reached the glow. Or perhaps the glow reached him. He couldn't quite put his finger on what had happened or how he had reached his destination, but he was there, awash in the bright light of…well…something. He stood in front of it, panting, catching his breath. He gazed into the blinding brightness, straining to see what awaited him. But he couldn't remain patient any longer. He stepped forward into the glow._

_He was blinded for a moment as the light intensity increased. It overtook the threatening shadows behind him. Then just as suddenly and startling as it had increased, it decreased back to its normal state. He had to rub his eyes and take just a moment to readjust before peering about him. He stood in an all white room. Nothing decorated or occupied it except a small podium in the middle of the room. And what else was perched on that podium, but the source of the beautiful music._

_He was taken aback at first. How could such a small little bird produce an enormous, powerful sound? He quickly got over this when the bird gave a little twitter as if telling him to draw nearer. He obeyed, not really realizing what was going on. His feet moved him forward, while his eyes remained transfixed on the brown bird. With each step that brought him closer, the bird would peep and chirp and its song would grow steadily louder and louder and more and more enthralling._

_At the closer proximity, he was finally able to identify the bird. It was a nightingale—a tiny brown bird of song. And oh what a song it could generate. He was thoroughly impressed and delighted. So much that he carefully reached his hand forward to gently stroke the magic melody maker. He wanted to hold it, protect it, keep it his forever. There was no longer a mere desire to be entertained by it. Now, a need had grown. He needed the nightingale more than anything in the world. He needed it or else he feared he would die._

_Just a few inches from the target and a loud, maniacally laugh overshadowed the airy song. He stopped, looking about him so as to find the horrible intruding noise and stop it. But nothing was there. The laugh continued, agitating him and sending him back a step or two. Frantically, he looked back toward the bird._

_Keep it safe. Keep it protected. Keep it alive._

_Suddenly large spikes bolted upward from the ground, creating bars in between them. It happened on all sides of the pedestal, entrapping the nightingale in a strange sort of ugly cage. The laughing grew louder and louder, and then the ground became encompassed in blackness. It stretched to the walls like some invading virus until the entire room was awash in darkness. _

_Then the shadows seemed to stretch against one another, and the figure of an enormous man loomed over him. This man grinned with disgusting yellowed teeth. His eyes beat red and evil. The laugh echoed from his throat. The man was threatening, but all he could think of was retrieving the nightingale. However, his feet seemed to be stuck to the ground. Had the shadows turned into tar? It was a sticky, smelly, uncomfortable substance. He struggled and tossed and lifted his feet to get away, but to no avail. _

_The cage in front of him containing the bird slowly rose from the ground. He couldn't comprehend what was occurring at first, but then he noticed the man's large hand clamped on a sort of hook at the very top of the cage. This monster was easily separating them. It was a mocking gesture._

_Adrenaline rushed toward his legs. All of his feelings dropped to the floor to fuel his muscles. He couldn't leave it at this. He had to retrieve the bird. That was the only thought in his head. So, in a sort of projectile style, he somehow separated himself from the entrapping ground and flew upwards. He reached toward the cage, trying to grab it and hold on for dear life so that he had a chance of freeing the nightingale. But to no avail._

_The only thing he was able to do was catch a glimpse inside the cage. Something was wrong with the nightingale. It didn't move. It didn't fight. It had turned to solid bronze. It was no longer the beautiful wild creature that had caught his attention. It was a machine—a contraption of man. It was no longer the nightingale._

_He began to fall—fall backwards into the blackest oblivion he had ever known. He didn't fight. He didn't struggle. He allowed weightlessness to take over his body. There was nothing he could do. The nightingale was gone. He had failed. He had only wanted to protect, to save, to hold, to keep…_

…_the nightingale…_

Erik awoke with a great start. He was dripping a cold sweat and breathing raggedly. That nightmare was a new one. The sights and sounds had seemed so real, he wasn't the least surprised to find his eardrums still ringing. He couldn't seem to pinpoint what exactly had occurred, though, within the dream. For some reason the vision was vague. The memory had left when he reentered the waking world. The only thing he was sure of was the epiphany that had now taken a hold of him.

"That's it," he whispered frantically. Then realizing the lowered volume in his voice, he spoke again, but louder. "That's it!"

Then in a torrent of fabric and cloth and other material, he was out of bed, dressed, and flying out of the room. He acted as if he had not just undergone a brush with incapacity. He moved with great agility and swiftness it would have seemed like the house was on fire. There was no preoccupying thought in his brain to hold him back. Madame Giry would enter the room only minutes later to find it a mess and its tenant missing. Though she wouldn't be too surprised, she would find herself distressing over his well-being and ability to properly close the case.

Erik sprinted down the darkened street. Judging by the lack of people outside and the lit lanterns and the position of the moon, he figured that it was at least midnight. He was grateful for the emptiness. It allowed him to move as quickly as he needed, and that was quick indeed. Even though he raced down the barren streets, he felt as if it wasn't fast enough. He wanted just wanted to reach the shop, but it seemed to be taking such a long time. He pumped faster and faster. There was no time to lose.

Finally, coming upon the shop, he slid to a halt. His heart pounded in his chest and his breath released in gasps, yet he paid no attention to it. He stared intently through the glass at the old instrument store. The interior was completely dark and still and silent. Relief surged through him as he found that Monsieur Richeleau was not around. But it was only temporary, and the relief was soon drowned with anxiousness as he made his way around to the back—through the alley he now knew so well.

The window he had found luck in before was unlatched again. Erik was through the pane and had his feet on the floor of the workshop in a single motion. He didn't move while his eyes adjusted to the advanced darkness in the room. Standing still, he felt the heavy silence starting to suffocate him. His heart pulsated in his temples. His breathing clouded around him.

Vision adjusted, Erik went to the desk. He no longer attempted to remain inconspicuous. It was too late in the game for that. He threw open the last drawer, revealed the secret compartment, and grabbed the little key. He pivoted toward the workbench, crouched at the bottom cabinet already. He removed the metal box that he had discovered before. He stuck the key into the lock. It slipped inside easily and turned perfectly. There was a light click and the top popped open. He lifted it carefully and gazed inside.

There were several receipts, a ribbon, a small checklist in neat feminine writing, and several other trinkets and then another key. Erik shook his head. These were all connected to Christine, he knew it. Her ribbon. The checklist for the preparation of her father's violin. The receipts from that transaction. But this key…what was it to? He took it gently between his fingers and lifted it to his face to further study it. It had a more ancient exterior, and was bigger than the first. This was it. This would lead him straight to the girl.

Hastily, he began to replace the box and get to his feet, and he accidentally dropped the old key in the process. It slid across the floor and underneath the rug in the middle of the room. Erik muttered a curse under his breath and went to retrieve it. He lifted up the edge of the rug, digging deeply inside. His pace slowed then stopped altogether. He felt something foreign beneath the rug. It wasn't the key. Oh no, this was too big to be any mere key. This was something else.

Erik flung over the rug and let it fall off to the side carelessly. His eyes went wide with fear and excitement. A trapdoor was etched into the wooden floor with a metal keyhole. The ancient key lay next to the lid. How much would he bet that the two were connected to each other?

He bent onto his haunches and stretched his hand to the key. He eased it into the lock, his heart racing. It fit perfectly. He turned it, his breath catching in his throat. Would it work? A click. Everything was falling so nicely into place. He lifted up the trapdoor. It moaned sadly. A musty smell wafted to his nostrils. He slowly erected, but continued to stare into the depths of this hidden area. This was where Monsieur Richeleau had escaped to the last night. This was where he hid and did his dirty business.

The void below was even darker than that within the room, but he could make out the outline of stone steps. There was nothing else. It was like a staircase descending into Hell with nowhere else to turn. And with that as his last thought, he took a deep breath and moved onto the stairs. Cautiously, Erik made his descent into the pit of blackness and sin.


	11. A Gilded Cage

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Wow, I am so honored by the reviews so far. Time to answer some questions, then, I guess. The shimmering crimson is Erik's "medicine." I cannot tell you any more than that. It shall be revealed in time. As for Erik being a vampire or not, I cannot say. I apologize, but again Erik's past and present state will become known eventually. Thanks for all of the reviews, again. Please stay tuned as this tale finally unfurls.

**Section 11**

- A Gilded Cage

Each step taken was slow and careful. The passage was so immensely dark he couldn't tell which direction he was headed in. He kept one hand guiding against the wall. The stone was cool and rough. The silence was dense and claustrophobic. The musty scent was thick enough to cause one to choke. Descending underground was not as simple as it seemed. A strange pressure appeared to weigh heavily on his chest the farther down he believed he went. He started to feel as if he couldn't breathe or even think. However, he never panicked. His relief at finding the hidden trap door was still fresh in his system.

Hell was definitely not an accurate description for the first part of his journey. It grew colder with a phantom wind. The surroundings were damp, and it was dark beyond all senses. Yet, very gradually his vision began to come back to him. It became easier to see the outlines of the steps then broader detail in everything. This slow transition was due to a dim glow that was steadily looming ahead. It grew brighter and brighter with every forward motion. He couldn't help feeling a rush of satisfaction and energy. Was he nearing the end? What would he come across? He hoped there would be nothing to the negative effect.

The light also meant warmth. The coolness gave way to an ever-rising comfortable temperature. This relaxed his muscles and soothed his nerves, but he couldn't give in to any contented emotion. Because for him, this case was just getting started. This was always the best and worst part of each and every assignment he took. It was the conclusion, but also the end of all things. He would discover what had become of the subject. However, it also meant that he had less involvement in whether or not that subject came out of this unaffected or not. He prayed that she would be unaltered.

Suddenly the darkness seemed to break in front of him, and the passage opened way for a small wooden door. He stood in front of it, watching the flickering light that rolled out from beneath the door. There was no sound—no sound other than his own heavy breathing that encompassed him. He reached a hand toward the metal handle. He was surprised at how his appendage shook. He could barely feel it doing so, but there it tremored in front of his eyes. There was no more waiting—his body knew it more than his own mind. He grasped the door handle tightly and pushed. The wooden slab gave way easily without much of a sound.

Erik tread cautiously into the room, looking about in interest and repulsion. The chamber was smaller than expected, but still of a good size. Being rectangular, a large metal pot occupied one corner. The contents within seemed to be boiling from the steam emanating out of the top, a small fire below the cauldron causing the bubbling. A short, but long wooden table was more centered. Two sets of ropes hung off of both ends. The light came from numerous candelabras set about the room and numerous torches set about the walls. Against one of those walls, behind the table, was another surface topped with various tools and materials and appliances. Other casual items littered extra space around the room.

None of this held any importance to what was in the opposite corner, though. There was the key to the entirety of the last few days' work. There was no doubt about the large, rusted cage or the lump of rags lying within its bars.

Erik's breath caught in his throat. He wouldn't have been surprised if his heart had stopped beating entirely the very second he first laid eyes upon the cell. He couldn't move, he couldn't think. The stationary state could have lasted anywhere from a second to an hour. He lost all track of urgency and time. Nonetheless, he was able to eventually overcome the shocked immobility, and began the long walk forward.

Each footfall weighed a ton. Each second lasted a lifetime. All the while, Erik never turned his gaze from the bundle at the back of the cage. It never moved, it never gave any sound. Was it alive? Was it dead? Was he too late? Could he still offer protection? These questions and much more burned deep holes in his head. Anticipation tugged at every inch of him. Instead of causing him to move quicker, it caused him to move even slower. He didn't want to reach the end of the trek. He didn't want to discover his worst fears. He'd almost prefer never knowing to that possibility.

He ended in front of the cage, stopping a couple feet from it, acting like there was some sort of plague oozing over every bar. Up close, the cell was noticeably weathered. The fake gold had been chipped away from the black metal that lay directly underneath. It could have been spectacular at one point in its creation, but it had turned ugly and grotesque with age and misuse. A small half of a curtain hung over one edge, ragged and casting a distorted shadow over the already darkened corner.

He opened his mouth to inquire of the rag heap's condition, but his throat had turned so dry that his voice became entangled. He closed his mouth and licked his lips. He swallowed some saliva and tried again. "Christine," he whispered knowingly.

At first there was no response, and his expression drooped. But after a moment, there was a shudder, and the bundle drew itself upward and turned toward him. It was difficult to decipher any features because of all the shadows, but he was soon put out of his expectancy.

"You're not him…" the soft, feminine voice trailed. "Have you…Have you come to…?"

"I've come to help you," Erik finished as quietly as before.

The rag doll slowly edged into the light to reveal a young woman beneath the scraps of clothing. Her father's description did her no justice. Her hair, though wild from days of no management, appeared soft and normally easy enough to run one's fingers through. It was of a rich chocolate color, probably darker than normal due to the conditions. Her pale skin appeared to be smooth and warm beneath the dirt and scrapes that had come to cover it. She appeared thin enough from lack of proper nutrition, but would definitely fill out nicely after a couple days of good meals. And then there were her facial features, which were heavenly apart from the wear and stress put upon them. Her lips, a pale pink, were full and slightly chapped, but obviously a smooth luscious cherry otherwise. Her nose was small and thin and cute. Then there were her eyes. Those emerald pools seemed to display every emotion imaginable, while maintaining a deepness that portrayed secrecy and desire. Those defiant eyes are what captured and called to him the most.

"Are you hurt?" Erik continued, catching himself after a brief interlude of mere staring.

She shook her head, tossing her curls. A small smile jumped to his lips for a blink before leaving just as suddenly. He was caught in silence, while her eyes insisted on searching his own in the next moment. He was slightly taken aback, too, to find that she didn't respond to his mask. There was no hesitation; there was no fear; there was no loathing or detestation. He felt his heart pound faster in his chest, and could have sworn that a blush threatened to creep to his cheek. Her eyes were so penetrating and forceful. He couldn't escape, so just waited for her to finish.

"I believe I can trust you," she concluded finally, her voice rising slightly.

It was good to hear that her voice, at least, hadn't suffered like her exterior. It made him wonder, but he kept that to himself. He believed he knew the answer to everything now. However, he was sure that Christine did not necessarily understand exactly why she had been kidnapped and what Monsieur Richeleau planned to do. Then again, he could tell that this girl was sharp. She was different from the other women in the society that he associated with. Perhaps she had figured it out on her own. He didn't want to bring it up, though, just in case.

"You're father sent me," Erik replied. "He's very worried."

He knew that that was a very obvious, stupid thing to say, but it seemed to make her feel better. She smiled, nodded, and placed a hand over her mouth like she might cry. She didn't shed a tear, though. There was a time and a place for such things and now was definitely not that time or place. There was a seriousness and urgency in which neither of them could ignore. They both recognized that and endured.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he assured.

Then he set about figuring out the lock. The cage was not going to budge or just fall open, that was more than obvious. He tugged at the door a couple times to make sure of its stability. The metal clanged loudly, triggering a sort of adrenaline inside of him. Creating this much noise simply meant that he would have to work faster. Someone would hear it, and he knew who that someone would be.

"Do you know where the key is, Christine?" he asked quickly.

"Try his tool bench. I know he keeps many things over there," was all the help she could offer.

Erik flew to the table along one of the walls. There were no drawers, so he sifted through what lay on top for a key or anything else that might be able to cut through the bars. Despite the many different tools, nothing struck him as capable.

"I'm not seeing a key or anything useful," he called to her.

She began to give him alternate directions, but her speech was interrupted by her own audible gasp. That wasn't good. Erik whipped around to confirm the notion that already terrified him. He had run out of time. He had been so close, but had fallen short. Why couldn't he have just had a little more time?

"Looking for this?" Monsieur Richeleau asked from the doorway, holding up a key hanging around his neck.


	12. The Final Requiem

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Section 12**

- The Final Requiem

He could see the nightingale slowly drifting out of his reach. He had come face to face with the beautiful creature just in time to lose it. The light emanating from it was steadily getting dimmer. The darkness was consuming everything, alive and strong with that loud and annoying maniacal laughter. It made him feel all the more weak and helpless. But the nightingale hadn't completely disappeared from view—not yet. He still had some hope, some tiny speck of diminishing hope. He had to hold onto that and use it to overcome this menacing shadow. He needed to free the nightingale.

"You never thought I would catch on, did you?" Monsieur Richeleau whispered creepily, an insane grin slightly parting his lips to reveal his yellowing teeth. "You misjudged my intelligence."

Erik backed closer to the worktable. He began to slowly edge along toward the cage, keeping his eyes fixed on the insane man in front of him. It would be suicide to turn your back on any foe. One should never underestimate what another is capable of. Under the right pretenses, there was no telling what someone could be driven to.

"Everyone misjudges my intelligence," Monsieur Richeleau kept going, not necessarily minding Erik's sluggish movement. "Your carelessness will be your downfall."

Erik had to think fast. He needed to keep his counterpart distracted for as long as possible. The less Monsieur Richeleau thought about what he would do as punishment, the longer Erik was able to devise a plan and then put it into action. He felt the cold metal bars of the cell against his hands, which acted as his eyes behind his back. He stopped, blocking Christine. Don't let him think about the girl.

"Monsieur," Erik began cordially, carefully. "May I inquire as to why you committed this act? Why Christine? What were you planning all along?"

"Why," Monsieur Richeleau mused mainly to himself. "Why?" He began to pace casually and slowly. "Why does the sun rise in the sky? Why do the birds fly and the fish swim?"

"I am afraid I do not follow," Erik said.

Monsieur Richeleau halted and looked at him with a cocky smirk. "Of course you don't." He began pacing again. "Why did I do this, and why to her? You can not begin to imagine the awe that overcame me when I first heard this delicate little flower singing on the corner." He closed his eyes and raised his head to the ceiling, reliving the experience. "Her voice was so innocent, so sweet. It was unlike anything I had ever encountered in my life. It touched my very soul, and I knew I had to have it…forever."

He opened his eyes and, after a moment, glanced over at Erik, who was staring at him with his brows creased. He sighed, dropping his face to the floor as if disappointed.

"You would never understand," he muttered.

"No, I cannot say that I do," Erik replied. "I have not heard her sing, Monsieur, but as you are a musical professional, I believe I have no choice but to trust you in the matter at the moment."

There was a pause of silence. He wasn't sure whether Monsieur Richeleau had heard him or not, or even cared or not, because in the next instant, the man continued with his story as if never being interrupted.

"So I acted. I gave her a message to come to the shop late one night in order to pick up her father's violin and view some extra changes I made to it. She obliged, and I never let her go. I finally had my beautiful tune at my disposal whenever I wanted to listen to it." Suddenly a shadow seemed to fall over him. "But like all things, I knew this voice would fade with time. I couldn't allow that. I can never allow something so beautiful to simply die."

"Like your instruments," Erik chimed softly.

"Exactly," Monsieur Richeleau answered without even looking at him. "So I found a way to keep it alive forever. It will never change. It will never end."

"That is what the bronzer is for."

"Precisely." He walked toward the tub of boiling liquid in the opposite corner and peered inside. "I will cast her in bronze and surgically place a mechanism in her voice box to allow music to flow freely." He picked up a metal bar normally used for stirring. "It will make a perfect music box." He pivoted and faced Erik. "Perhaps I didn't give you enough credit. Perhaps I underestimated you, as you did me."

"Why would you think that?" Erik asked innocently. He didn't want to give away his own strength and capabilities.

"You seemed to have figured out parts of my plan easily. You found out that it was me and where the girl was located, or else you wouldn't be down here right now." He sighed, stepping forward. "So there is one thing left to do before I bring forth the conclusion to my plan."

"What would that be?" Erik asked, but he already knew.

No plan had hit him, but he had been given enough time to glance around at possible defensive tools. He could feel his muscles tighten and his heart pound faster. He was getting ready for whatever Monsieur Richeleau was about to do. He had decided to protect Christine with his life, even though she, for the moment, was safe inside the cage and he was about to face off against a dangerous lunatic. He wasn't going to back down or give up until the very last breath left his body. Bring it on.

"I have to kill you, of course," Monsieur Richeleau announced nonchalantly.

Then he flew at Erik, brandishing the metal bar above his head, ready to bring it down on Erik's skull. Erik ducked out of the way, though, causing Monsieur Richeleau to swing into the metal bars, creating a loud clang that shattered everyone's eardrums. He was fast in his recovery, waving the bar like some sort of threatening bat. He knocked into every object in the vicinity. Glass jars and bottles shattered on his workbench. Objects flew onto the floor in his fury. He was out of control.

Erik moved just as swiftly out of the way. He ducked and dodged, infuriating Monsieur Richeleau even more. He wasn't about to be a target for that metal pole, though. He flipped over the table in the center of the room as he was attacked once more. Landing on his feet, he was able to seek out a sort of weapon to aid him. It was a simple staff that would have helped spread the bronzer. It was held more like a sword than what its original creation called for.

Erik brought it up just in time to block another over-the-head blow Monsieur Richeleau attempted. He retaliated and was able to push the man stumbling backward into his own worktable. The fire didn't die out of Monsieur's Richeleau eyes, though, despite the danger Erik had added into the situation. If anything, it seemed like he became more invigorated and energized. The craze grew even wilder. He was determined to win and receive Christine as his prize.

They were face to face again, wielding metal against metal, back and forth. Who knew how long it lasted? It seemed like hours and hours on end. Reality was a thing of fiction. Then Erik got the upper hand. He lifted Monsieur Richeleau's legs out from under him, and the man fell to the stone ground, hitting his head with a loud crack. Erik viewed his motionless body for a mere second before ripping the key from around his neck and scurrying to the cage.

He fitted it into the lock and turned. There was a click and the bolt fell to the ground. The door swung open, and a delightful feeling coursed through Erik. He had saved her. The nightingale was free. Now he didn't have to worry about what would occur if he should fall. He was strengthened with the thought of her safety. She could run away, run home. She could get away and never come back. His promise would be fulfilled.

Christine moved slowly to the front of the cell, acting like she did not know what to do. There was no smile on her face or in her eyes. Instead, she wore an inquiring expression, and remained gazing with uncertainty and concern at Erik. He offered a small smile, but she did not respond to it.

"Go," he said softly. "Go now before it's too late."

There was a long moment of hesitation. She had one foot out of the jail and a hand around one of the bars. She didn't move, though, and didn't speak. She stared into his face. It seemed like they were suddenly alone in a separate world. There was no way they could be bothered or interrupted. But that was only how Erik felt for the few seconds before fear washed over Christine's face.

"Watch out!" she screamed.

They both ducked out of the way, and there was a loud clang that echoed the previous metal pole against metal bars. Erik pivoted in his dodge and lifted his head to see Monsieur Richeleau breathing heavily with a stream of blood running down the back of his neck. Erik's eyes went wide. For a moment, his mind blanked out on him. He didn't know what to do. He had believed he had helped Christine, but he had just made her more vulnerable. There was only one solution he saw to get out of this: get Monsieur Richeleau as far away from her as possible so she could escape.

Erik dived at Monsieur Richeleau. Their bodies collided and they wavered unsteadily backward. He held the man's hands so he could not bring about the weapon for help. The struggle with that added to the sway. It was a wonder they hadn't fallen yet, but gravity was not that unyielding. At the opposite end of the room, they finally dropped next to the bubbling bronzer. Luckily, Erik had landed on top of Monsieur Richeleau and could pin him long enough to aid in Christine's getaway.

"Go now!" he cried over his shoulder.

His vision was consumed with his opponent's stressed face, but he heard a small patter of feet, and assumed it was Christine running up the steps. He continued to struggle with Monsieur Richeleau believing the prisoner to be safely out of harm's way. However, he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the feminine voice break through the grunts and groans.

"Move," it commanded forcefully.

Without question, Erik obeyed. He rolled off of Monsieur Richeleau just as the tub of boiling bronzer spilled over his body. Monsieur Richeleau gave a shriek of agony and alarm. A large white cloud shrouded the image, and eventually the screams subsided. Erik, crouching just out of the bronzer's reach, was hypnotized at the scene. He hadn't removed his eyes from the location he had left the man. The cloud slowly thinned and wafted away, and after a few minutes, the vision was clear.

There was no more Monsieur Richeleau. In place of where he had been lying only moments earlier was a bronze statue that resembled him in every way. The position the statue was caught in was twisted and awkward. The expression on its face was distorted and ugly. Irony was one way to describe his end.

Erik stood and looked to Christine, who was standing behind the overturned tub. She was staring down at the statue with a frown and a furrowed brow. It was obvious that, despite what he had put her through, she wasn't necessarily ecstatic about having caused that. Erik didn't know what to think, though. This little creature had saved him. He never could have expected something of this nature, but he was grateful and impressed and just ready to get her back to where she belonged.

"Come, Christine," he said somewhat hoarsely. "It's time to go. You're father is waiting for you."

She simply nodded and allowed herself to be ushered to the surface by him. They emerged from Hell into the world of the sleeping.


	13. Blissful Tidings

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** Ah, Monsieur Richeleau is finally defeated. Erik did figure out his plan beforehand, but he had wanted to keep Monsieur Richeleau preoccupied and figured that he would be more than willing to share his "genius" plan. He mentions how he knew about it in this chapter. Thank you all for your reviews. It makes me excited to update when I know that people are actually interested in my story. Thanks! .-

**Section 13**

- Blissful Tidings

After removing themselves from the dreaded scene, a strong silence had fallen between Erik and Christine. The night air felt cool in contrast to the heated event that had just taken place. One could really work up a sweat in a dire situation and not even realize it. Erik was relieved to feel his heartbeat pulsating normally again and his nerves completely relaxing. However, he had decided he would not be satisfied until he saw the girl safely to her front door. He wasn't about to take any chances this late in the game, when it should all be over.

"Thank you," Christine whispered after they had gone about a block or two without a word. "Thank you for rescuing me."

She kept her gaze on the street in front of each step. Erik looked over at her and was finally able to examine her entire figure and the rags she wore. It could have been an awfully nice looking garment at one point, but between the struggle she must have put up and the ill-treatment, it appeared more like a burlap sack altered into a dress than an actual gown. He cursed himself for not noticing earlier, and removed his cape. He swung it around her bony shoulders in a swift motion. She faltered for a single moment in her step when he did this then turned her shimmering eyes toward him.

"I should really be thanking you," Erik replied somewhat loudly, as if to distract from the awkward pause. "If you hadn't been so stubborn and remained in the room after I told you repeatedly to go, who knows where I'd be right now. I could still be in the clutches of Monsieur Richeleau. It might have ended differently." He took a side glance at her, a small smirk coming to his lips. "Perhaps not."

"How were you able to find me?" Christine asked, her expression still solemn.

"You'd find it the strangest thing," Erik brushed off. He shook his head. "Even I do not quite understand it."

"Tell me. There is no way I could possibly think ill of the man who saved my life."

She stopped walking and just stood and stared at him with those big green eyes. He stopped a couple steps ahead of her and turned with an inquiring expression. She looked genuine in her response. What else could he do than acquiesce to her? Facing her, he cleared his throat then placed his hands behind his back. He couldn't bring himself to look at her as he revealed the source of his knowledge.

"You will find it quite silly, really," he began, "but I knew all about Monsieur Richeleau's plan. Of course, it took a little while to completely understand what all of the separate parts were for. It made so much sense, though, when it all came together." She nodded, he noticed, signaling him to continue. "Last night-or was it this night-I fell into a fitful dream. I won't go into detail of it since that is unimportant. It was that dream, though, that made everything dawn on me."

"A dream, really?" probed Christine in a non-pushy manner.

He nodded. "I must say, it has never occurred before where a case is solved by a dream."

"That is very odd, very odd indeed. And very…coincidental," Christine whispered more to herself than to him, picking up a steady pace again.

Erik fell one step behind her, but stared at her in intrigue. Her gaze was strong, focused downward to the ground, but definitely seeing anything except concrete. He figured she must be recapping whatever this coincidence could be. He wasn't about to be left in the dark, though, when he had revealed his own little tale.

"What is coincidental?" he asked trying to sound rather disinterested.

"It's just," she paused for a couple seconds, "I had a curious dream before you arrived, too." Suddenly, she giggled. Her laugh erupted in the night, slicing the silence pleasantly. "It is just so peculiar that we would both experience such strange dreams the same night."

Erik's brows furrowed in wonder, but before he could question further into it, Christine continued. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to get that sight out of my mind. I may be haunted by it forever."

"It will leave you, eventually," Erik reassured.

"How are you so certain?"

"You still have a lot ahead of you. There will be many joyous moments to replace this incident. As long as you do not dwell on this and let this run the rest of your life, it will pass."

Christine nodded, smiling. "I suppose you are right." She sighed. "But how ironic."

"You are correct in that, Mademoiselle," Erik said. "Monsieur Richeleau received exactly what he was going to bestow. You didn't happen to plan that, did you?"

"Any means of escape appealed to me. I wasn't about to rule anything out," Christine said quietly, but somewhat proudly.

Erik was impressed. It was strange having such a light-hearted, fun conversation after what they just underwent. But walking next to her just seemed so calming and enjoyable. He couldn't help feeling his spirits rise despite everything and himself.

"It really takes a…unique mind to arrive at such intentions," Christine whispered, shivering from the thought.

"Well it was his desire to preserve everything beautiful that really betrayed him," Erik commented lightly.

"How do you mean?" questioned Christine.

"You see," Erik stated looking over at her, "it is impossible to capture beauty and maintain it for all eternity, like he tried to accomplish. He never could have achieved his goal." He paused, mainly for dramatics. He became serious, though, and a small untraceable glint came to his hazel eyes. "Beauty is only beautiful because it is temporary. It is due to the fact that it will eventually wither that makes beauty."

-----

It was another block before their steps gradually slowed and they came to a halt in front of the familiar apartment. The darkness seemed to mask the hideous details of the shabby building. Previous viewing of it would be the only way to tell just how bad off it was. Despite this special knowledge, Christine looked upon the sight in admiration and comfort. It gave the place the feel of a palace instead of a shack.

"Well here we are," Erik confirmed.

Christine nodded and gazed toward him. It seemed difficult for her to pull her eyes off of the small apartment. Her face shone even brighter than he had ever seen it. He swore it would have been able to light up the entire night it she was somehow wired to a bulb. Her expression made him feel warm and at ease.

"Thank you," she breathed handing back his cloak. "Thank you for helping me and seeing me home. Thank you for everything, Monsieur…"

She just realized that she had never gotten his name. Her face screwed up on behalf of her loss of a name. She would have tried to prevent it if she had known, but the thought struck her so suddenly that she didn't have time to properly control her composure. It dawned on Erik, too. How strange it must have been that he knew her name, but she did not know his.

Quickly, he chimed in, "Erik. Just call me Erik. No formalities are needed."

The smile returned to Christine's face, and she echoed, "Erik."

"And there is no need to thank me, Mademoiselle. It was my pleasure. You're father is a very caring gentleman."

Tears came to the edges of Christine's eyes. It was like that was all she had ever wanted to hear. She was so proud of her father, and it was obvious she loved him immensely. Erik was astounded at how close and rich the rather underprivileged family was compared to some other wealthier families. It was just another example of money meaning nothing in happiness.

"I will tell him you said so," she said. "Goodbye then."

She seemed to hesitate briefly before taking the steps slowly. She opened the door, glanced back one last time at Erik, then shut up safely inside the house.

Erik watched the front door for a minute more. He crept in closer until he was face to face with the dirty glass of the window. Carefully, he peered inside to where a single candle flickered strongly. The old man Daaé was alone and resting. The blankets heaved up and down with every difficult breath. But then the bedroom door opened. He watched Christine creep softly in and sit on the side of the bed. She ran her hand over her father's forehead. He stirred, and it seemed as if he had been replaced by a younger man, for he nearly shot out of bed at the sight of her. He was so excited and relieved. Tears flowed and they were caught in a long embrace.

Erik smiled to himself. Was this the best part about his work? Probably. It always overjoyed him to see those reunited who actually appreciated life. Despite all of the odds against them, this family had learned to survive and be grateful for what they had. Erik stepped back onto the sidewalk and looked up into the sky. It was slowly getting lighter. The shadows were being chased back into their hiding places by the rising sun.

So as the sun steadily took its position, Erik walked back to his home.


	14. One More Epitaph

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** This is not going to be the end of Erik and Christine's interaction, for sure. As stated in the note in the first chapter, I do plan to make this a bit of a series. I have yet to figure out just how many installments there will be, but I have written down several ideas for future assignments. Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, and even Raoul will still play major roles. As for this case, there will be an epilogue after this chapter and then a new story will take place. I'm rather excited to start the next part. Erik's past will gradually be revealed and romances will form. I will not say between who or the drama that ensues. Haha, that kinda rhymed. Anyway, back to this section of the assignment!

**Section 14**

- One More Epitaph

It had been a few days since Erik had left the old instrument shop. He hadn't returned since, and he hadn't seen any of the Daaé's, either. In general, he pretty much hadn't left the comfort of the house since that fateful night. He had given little thought to what had happened—diving into his music like he usually did in between cases. He had been attempting to compose a symphony, claiming it would be his life's work, but had run into a dead end with it. Suddenly he felt inspired once again to write it.

Madame Giry had chided him lightly for running off into the night when he was still recovering from his faint. She made him get right to sleep, which he humbly did, and ended up staying unconscious until the next morning. When he had awoken, he had found her in a much more pleasant mood. She had given subtle hints at how proud and glad she was he had saved Christine right in the knick of time. It made him feel slightly righteous to know he pleased her.

With Meg attending rehearsals diligently and Erik so consumed with the case, they had had little time to actually interact. When they did, though, Meg was all too forward with her elated feelings for his solving the case that she would have tackled him in an embrace if her mother hadn't been there to stop her. Meg was always overjoyed when he finished an assignment. She only overreacted in such a manner when it weighed heavily on him.

There was no doubting that Erik's respect for Madame Giry, Meg, and even Joseph Buquet rose. He felt like he owed them more after witnessing the Daaé reunion. It had touched him, and it still touched him. However, it had faded slightly over the past couple days after he had been confined with his music. Once he set his mind to the task, there was little else that would affect him. He usually grew somewhat cross and intolerant. Not this time. This time, he kept himself in check to take at least an hour out of each day to visit with the other inhabitants.

Today it was over breakfast. He was seated in his usual seat, but without the paper. He had woken up a bit early, and Madame Giry had refused to let him sit with his paper. She said she would bring it out with a tray of food for him to eat. He didn't complain as he normally would have. Why not eat a little something? He decided he could use the energy the rest of the day.

A large bottomed black gown rustled through the doorway, while Madame Giry carried a tray into the dining room. She set it down in front of Erik, spreading the contents out neatly. She set a bowl of oatmeal at the center, the heat still rising from it, and a hardboiled egg to one side. She put the paper and a nice cup of tea to the other side. She had really outdone herself that day. The presentation looked splendid. Erik even swore he heard his stomach grumble in impatience at the sight of the food.

"Thank you," Erik muttered. "It looks delicious."

"I thought I'd put a little extra backbone into preparation today, sir," Madame Giry replied. "It's rare that you actually eat a good breakfast. Why not make it special?"

He smiled at her, knowingly, then looked down at the nourishment. The smell was fantastic, exciting his empty stomach. He picked up the small metal spoon and was ready to dig into the porridge. He stopped midway, though, vaguely aware of Madame Giry's eyes on him. He tried to continue the motion, but he couldn't shake the awkward feeling. Finally he gave up and turned back to his housemate.

"You know, Madame Giry, there is no need to watch over me like I'm a disobedient child," Erik whispered.

"Oh, but there is," she retorted.

"And why is that?"

"Well, sir, I don't believe I've ever witnessed you take a meal so willingly. I just want to be sure that you are not tricking me or that I am not merely imagining things."

She was so serious in what she said that he couldn't help finding it slightly peculiar. He wanted to laugh in mere absurdity. Her earnest look muffled it in his throat, though, before any sound could be produced. He simply nodded and turned back to his food.

"Alright, I guess I can understand that."

Waiting no longer, he dug into the oatmeal. It was nice and warm sliding down his throat. It was of a good consistency, too: not too lumpy, not too smooth. It was perfect, and he was somewhat disappointed when his spoon scrapped against the bottom of the bowl. He cracked the egg next, using a smaller spoon to scoop up its contents. By the end of the meal, he was satisfied and comfortable.

His normal routine kicked in then. He leaned back in the chair with his cup of tea and his open newspaper. Madame Giry cleared the table and cleaned the dishes, while he read. Nothing seemed to amuse him through the first couple of pages. It was the usual news about current events within the community—festivals, performances, marriages, etc. But when he came to around the middle of the paper, he stopped and stared at a small section of the page.

Madame Giry bustled back in to find him motionless and silent. At first she didn't know what to do. She thought perhaps his tea had run out, but it was still halfway filled with liquid. So she cleared her throat and moved on by, pretending to straighten out the laced tablecloth and act disinterested.

"Something interesting catch your eye?"

It was a moment before he answered, but then he mumbled, "Actually, yes. It seems our Monsieur Richeleau has finally been discovered."

Madame Giry stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands nervously intermingled with each other at her bust line. She was always afraid of this part. One wrong word and their cover could be entirely blown. She would be back out on the streets. Meg would leave the ballet and have a spoiled reputation the rest of her life. They would perhaps starve to death. But she was getting ahead of herself.

"What does it say?" she uttered.

"It says he died of a heart attack. The good old police force wouldn't want to print anything that would send the public into chaos."

The breath finally left Madame Giry in a sigh of relief. She went back to straightening the dining area, believing the news to be over. She wouldn't expect Erik to share anything with her, especially if it was in anyway personal. The reason why she knew what she knew about him was purely chance. It was her being present when things happened that she found them out. That was all. There was no confidence. There was no storytelling.

"There is another note in the obituaries, though, that strikes me," Erik continued slowly.

She stopped and looked up again, questioningly.

"It seems a nice old man has finally passed away."

"And who would that be, sir?" she asked emotionlessly.

"Our former employer Monsieur Daaé."

Madame Giry nodded, sensing the grave moment. She set about her task, needing to do something, but slower and gentler this time. She tried to be as quiet as a mouse with only the ticking of the grandfather clock as background noise.

"It reads that he died peacefully in the night from the stopping of his heart. There was no pain."

He folded up the newspaper and set it down on the table. Even though he was only halfway done with it, he didn't feel like flipping through the black and white pages anymore. He believed he owed it to Monsieur Daaé to take a little time to just sit with the moment. He took up his teacup and sipped.

"That's the perfect ending."

"Sir," Madame Giry interrupted, barely above a whisper. "What about the girl? Her father was all that was left of her family, am I not mistaken?"

"No, you are correct." He paused, readjusting his position. "I believe she will live happily in that house with her betroth. Perhaps he has enough money to move them into a nicer house, although that one holds a lot of sentiment." He nodded, more to himself than to her. "Yes, she will be well off. There's no need to worry."

"None at all," Madame Giry agreed.

She side-glanced at him noticing his absent gaze and his furrowed brow. A small smirk came to her lips. She finished with the chore and stood before him properly.

"If I may make a suggestion," she began slowly, gently, "perhaps you should send some sort of card or even a little something to show your sorrow for her loss."

Erik tore his gaze from the far off land of his mind and looked to her. There was a small touch of humor there beneath the seriousness and formality.

"It is a fine suggestion, but no. One of the most important rules for this occupation that I vowed to never break under any circumstances was contact after the fact. I fulfilled my obligation and that is that." He took a swig of tea. "Case closed."

Madame Giry nodded, taking up the empty teacup and saucer. "Whatever you say, sir." She whisked the china off to the kitchen to be cleaned.

Erik stared straight ahead for a moment longer.

"Yes," he stated to himself. "Case closed."


	15. Epilogue

**Disclaimer:** Even if I had the entire cast chained up in my basement, I still wouldn't officially own The Phantom of the Opera.

**Title:** Peccata Mundi

**Summary:** The history of a man lies behind his white mask and his devotion to those in need. Through the shadows of his past and the light of the future, he seeks to right the wrong.

**Assignment 1: **The Nightingale

**Summary: **With his night terrors growing steadily worse, Erik must find the strength to locate a kidnapped woman. Will he be able to discover and protect her before it's too late, and will he be able to correctly distinguish between the past and the present?

**Author's Note:** That menu bit sounds like it would have been pretty funny. Exactly something I would do. And alas, we have come to the end of The Nightingale Assignment. I am liking the ending of this, and you'll see why once you reach the end of the epilogue. There will also be a slight preview, I guess you could say, of the next installment at the bottom of the epilogue. I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I hope I don't lose all of you going into the next chapter of the Detective Erik series. It has been a pleasure. So until next time…bows…thank you for your reviews, support, ideas, hypotheses, etc. I remain your obedient servant, D.

**Epilogue**

_Two weeks later…_

The music swirled in ribbons around him, filling the closed office and his own mind. It was a pretty, more lively piece than most of the others that he had previously composed. He didn't know if it was this contrast or just the order of the notes, but for some reason he couldn't put his finger on the tune sounded all wrong. And when the musician's intuition about his work was not fully optimistic and proud and assured, there was no way to salvage it. He could only stop and start over again from the beginning until it felt perfect and right.

Erik set down his violin and tore a few sheets of music to the floor so that blank pages were before him. He picked up his instrument again, holding it delicately between his chin and shoulder, and tried another tune. It was less wild than the one before it, and it seemed to flow nicer. Not fully convinced it was fitting, but feeling more confident about it than the last piece, he took time every few seconds to stop and write out the notes that flew from his fingers. And each time he would restart his song.

It had become increasingly harder to produce his symphony. All of the inspiration that had been present weeks before had basically faded into oblivion. It made him angry and coarse. He had turned into a sort of ghoul that would remain locked away in his study all day and night, only emerging to yell at someone to be quiet or to fetch him some nourishment to keep him going. It was a giant reversal of how he had vowed to act after the last case.

But that was also a cause for his troubled state. Whenever there were periods of no work, he would become sour. Perhaps it was because he felt cooped up and slightly claustrophobic within the confines of the house. Perhaps it was because no funds were coming in during the period of stasis. Whatever the case, the master of the house had changed for the worse for the time being. All of the three other occupants knew to stay out of his way and to not do anything to upset him in this state. They also knew that it was temporary and very soon they were sure to have their old boss back.

During a time of his recording the notes, a knock at the front door echoed into Erik's ears. He didn't respond, knowing that Madame Giry was sure to answer it in no time. Without a doubt, the clacking noise of her heels pounded across the floor to the front hall to greet whoever was calling. Believing it to be some messenger or other of the sort, Erik shouldered his violin once more and began to play. He closed his eyes, trying to get into the music, which was not quite working.

He was just reaching a new point in the song when voices drifted into the room, interrupting his concentration. At first he tried to play past this distraction, grasping the instrument harder, but to no avail. He stopped for a moment, letting the violin dangle at his side. Then the voices seemed to diminish just as randomly as they had interrupted. He sighed, picking up the violin again, and starting over in the song.

Again, it wasn't long before the same voices breached his focus. He furrowed his brows and struck the strings harder with the bow, hoping the voices would fade out like before. But he wasn't so lucky, and eventually he gave up with an irritated huff. Rage boiled inside of him. He wasn't going to stand for this in his own house. He needed peace and quiet, and he just needed something to jump start this blasted symphony!

Erik stomped to the office door, flung it open so it banged against the supporting wall, and continued into the hall and to the front door, violin and bow in hand. His mind was worked up. Who could Madame Giry be chattering away with? It wasn't like he had many people just stopping by. He liked the solace of not having to constantly act as host. But for some reason, he now had an unexpected visitor.

"Madame Giry," he began to chide even before he had reached her. His long legs stretched in large strides, moving him quickly forward. "What is the meaning of this commotion?"

Madame Giry stopped talking to whoever lay behind the door. Erik was in such a position where he couldn't see the unwanted guest. There was a smug smile on Madame Giry's face at his approach. She bowed her head in respect, but met his gaze with a hidden defiance.

"My apologies, sir," she said lightly.

"Do not allow it to happen again," he whispered threateningly.

Erik pivoted to go back to his study, but didn't even get one step before Madame Giry continued, "I was just greeting the newest member to our household."

He stopped, hardly believing what he had just heard. He spun back around to face her, his brows in a twist. First, she interrupted his delicate process. Then she informs him of some new arrival that he hadn't even approved of. The woman had gall.

"What?" he questioned. "I never allowed another resident into this house."

"Please, don't be upset," a small feminine voice said from behind the door.

Oddly enough, Erik found it rather familiar. He shuffled Madame Giry out of the way and opened the door wider. To his shock, standing in the doorway with a single carpet bag of belongings, clad in an old design, and grinning from ear to ear, was none other than one of the people he had refused ever to contact again—Christine Daaé. Her mere presence went against the code he had sworn by: to never have contact with clients after the case.

"Can I help you?" he asked, forgetting his anger and not even realizing what had flustered out of his mouth.

"I ran into Mademoiselle Daaé the other day and inquired of her well-being," Madame Giry interrupted. Erik continued to stare, mouth slightly agape, at Christine. "She told me how lonely the house felt now, so I took it upon myself to hire her for extra help. I had a feeling you wouldn't protest. Well, at least not too much."

Erik was speechless. He didn't quite know what else to say. Should he allow it? Could he send her away? It was still rather surprising to him. Christine, though, seemed to have made up her, as well as his, mind. She stepped around him into the house.

"I am a hard and diligent worker. You don't have to worry about noise or my being in the way. You will hardly know I am even here," Christine informed. "Where should I set my things?"

"Up the staircase. I'll be right with you," Madame Giry pointed out.

Christine departed up the steps, allowing Madame Giry to attend to the dumb Erik. He had recovered his composure completely, but he was still void of anything intelligible to say. He was staring after Christine. It wasn't until she was completely out of sight that he even dared open his mouth again.

"How did you know she was the missing girl in the case?" he turned on Madame Giry.

She smiled. "I have my ways, as you have yours." Erik's head turned back up the staircase. "Should I set another place at the table then, sir?" she asked, moving slowly up the steps.

Erik sighed. "I suppose you have no choice, Madame Giry. It looks as if there is an addition to our family." And he closed the front door.

_Fin_

* * *

_Next in store for our detective…_

After her big debut, Meg mysteriously goes missing. Add in multiple child kidnappings, and Erik is more than concerned. With the aid of his newest resident, he will have to solve the kidnappings and rescue Meg before it is too late.


End file.
